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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 


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Shelf .,.C.^75 H 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
















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MS 

























A Heroine 
Of Charity 

AND 

Other Stories. 


A CATHOLIC STORY BOOK, 


/ 

MARY ROWENA COTTER. 


PRICE, $1.25. 


COPY KIGHT, 1S93, 

By MARY R. COTTER 


/>> l 


ROCHESTER, N. Y. 

Press of tlie Catholic Journal Printing and Publishing Co 

1893 - 


CONTENTS. 


I- A Heroine of Charity. . . 

II. Farmer Carson’s Sons. . . i2tf 

III. The Brown Ctrl. ... . 212 

IV. A New England Hermit. . . 287 

V. Air Castles. .... aid 




A Heroine of Charity 


CHAPTER I. 

“On Christmas eve the bells were rung; 

On Christmas eve the mass was sung; 

That only night in all the year 
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. 

The damsel donned her kirtle sheen, 

The hall was dressed with holly green; 

Forth to the woods did merry men go 
To gather in the mistletoe. 

Then open’d wide the baron’s hall 
To vassal, tenant, serf and all; 

The fire with well dried logs supplied, 

Went roaring up the chimney wide; 

Then was brought in the lusty brawn, 

By the old blue-coated serving man; 

Then the grim boar’s head frowned on high, 

Crested with bays and rosemary; 

Then came the merry maskers in 
And carols roared with blithsome din. 

England \vas merry England, when 
Old Christmas brought his sports again. 

’Twas Christmas brewed the mightiest ale; 

’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; 

A Christmas gambol oft did cheer 
A poor man’s heart through half the year.” 

Sir Walter Scott, 

/CHRISTMAS eve had come, and with it had come 
^ one of the severest storms that had visited 
southern England for years. All day the sky had 
looked dark and threatening, but very little snow T 


10 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


had fallen until just before dark, when a wild 
storm had set in, and in a short time great drifts 
were piling up everywhere around the village of 
Torrence. Torrence, for such I have chosen to 
call the place, was the home of Lord Ashleigh, 
the only surviving son of a large and aristocratic 
English family . The western part of the village 
was composed mostly of cottages, and standing in 
the midst of these, like a huge giant was a stately 
old mansion, the home of the lord Most of these 
cottages, and also many in other parts of the vil- 
lage, belonged to his estate. 

As night drew on the fury of the storm in- 
creased, and the darkness was something that 
would fill with awe any one who chanced to be 
out alone very late. It was one of those dreadful 
nights on which so many dark deeds are committed, 
and the criminal finds such easy meaas ©f escape, 
often never to be found. 

Driving from our minds all thoughts of the 
gloom outside, let us take a peep in at some of 
the windows as we pass the cottages on our way 
to the mansion. While the chill December winds 
are blowing without our eyes are greeted by 
many merry scenes inside. Bright fires are glow- 
ing upon the hearths and in many of the cottages 
the Christmas candle has been lighted in anticipa- 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


11 


tion of the midnight visit from the Infant Saviour, 
while the people seem to know nothing but happi- 
ness — and why shouldn’t they be happy for these 
simple peasants have for many weeks looked for- 
ward to the morrow, first, because it was the 
greatest holiday in all the year and second on ac- 
count of a great event in the history of their vil- 
lage which it was to bring near. Some of them 
have retired for an hour or two’s rest, before it is 
time for midnight Mass but most of them sit up 
to wait for that hour. The children have all gone 
to bed after having lisped their simple evening 
prayers and are now sweetly dreaming of the little 
Infant Jesus about whom they have heard so much 
for the past few weeks or of Santa Claus and their 
stockings hanging by the chimney. 

As we near the mansion, our ears are greeted 
by the sound of music mingled with Christmas 
carols and now and then amerry peal of laughter, 
which tells that all is mirth and joy inside. The 
large old fashioned hall from which these sounds 
of merriment proceed is brilliantly lighted. A 
huge yule log is brightly burning upon the hearth, 
the mistletoe bough hangs over the main entrance, 
wreaths of holly and evergreen adorn the walk 
with here and there an old fashioned portrait of 
some honored members of the family perhaps long 


12 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


since departed. Two or three of these had made 
their names almost immortal by victories won on 
the battle field and above their pictures hung the 
weapons which they had so gallantly used- 

The hall is thronged with many noble guests, 
relatives of the family and a few very intimate 
friends, for Christmas was a time when Lord Ash- 
leigh always gathered together everyone to whom 
either he or his wife could claim any tie of rela- 
tionship, and Christmas eve at his home was al- 
ways the merriest night in the whole year. He 
wished to spend this night in old time English 
style and nothing was too good for his friends 
who always received the heartiest welcome. 

The most prominent person among that gay 
throng was the lord’s only daughter, Inez, a lovely, 
fair-haired, blue-eyed girl of twenty -one It was 
on her account that great pains had been taken to 
make the festivities of this Christmas eve greater 
than they had been for many years, for the day 
after to-morrow she was to be married to Walter 
Tracy, a young army officer just home from 
India. 

Although six years older than herself, the 
young man had been one of her dearest friends in 
childhood, having been brought up with her, and 
as they grew older, w r hat had once been only a 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


13 


mere childish attachment, ripened into a mutual 
affection Walter’s parents, who had always been 
very intimate friends of the Ashleigh family, dying 
when he was only ten years old, had left their 
only child in the lord’s care, and Inez soon 
learned to look upon him as an older brother No 
brother and sister could have been more attached 
than were these two children during the years 
that they spent together. She was fifteen when 
he left home to spend a few months in southern 
Europe and Egypt. She parted with him as she 
would with a brother, begging him not to forget 
his sister when he was so far away, and not to re- 
main very long. He told her that he would think 
of her often, and would return home in a short 
time. 

For a while after his departure she missed him 
very much, but as the weeks and months went by 
she began, like a child, to count the days that 
would elapse before his return; but poor Inez; she 
did not dream of the disappointment in store for 
her, and only those who have watched and waited 
for the return of some dear one — who is far 
away — and who, it sometimes seemed would 
never return, can know how lonely she felt when 
the day of the expected arrival drew near, and 
she learned that he was not coming home. Their 


14 A HEROINE O £ CHARITY. 

correspondence had been like that between an af- 
fectionate brother and sister, and in some of their 
letters they had addressed each other as such. 
Inez had one only brother at home, but he was 
not yet nine years old, and had never been the 
companion to her that the absent one had been. 

The day before Walter was expected had come 
and she was very happy in thinking what a wel- 
come she would give him and hoping that he was 
coming home to stay when a letter came from him 
post-marked at Calcutta. His last letter had been 
written from Athens, and now when she believed 
him to be so near home, she could hardly under- 
stand the meaning of this letter coming from In- 
dia. Her worst fears were confirmed when she 
read that he had enlisted in the British army and 
would not be home for some time. This had 
been one of his reasons for going away, but know- 
ing how attached Lord Ashleigh’s family were to 
him, he had refrained from letting any of them 
know of his plans excepting the lord himself to 
whom he disclosed them a short time after his 
departure asking advice of him as he would of a 
father and requesting him to keep his secret until 
after he had enlisted. 

Alone in her own room that night, Inez shed 
many lonely tears over the letter from her brother 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


15 


'who was so far away and who, perhaps, would 
be killed in a foreign land where she would never 
again see him. Oh, why did he do it and would 
he ever return home, she asked herself again and 
again, thinking not of the honors after which he 
aspired but of the dangers surrounding him. 

Four years passed after Walter’s enlistment, 
and having received a few weeks leave of absence, 
he arrived home quite unexpectedly one bright 
summer’s day bringing with him high honors 
which he had won by faithfulness to duty. 

Many and true were the friends that the young 
soldier had made while abroad, but none were as 
dear to him as those he had left in dear old Eng- 
land. All the old friends seemed unchanged to 
him excepting the tall fourteen year old boy whom 
he met at the gate as he was entering the grounds 
and the little sister, as he loved to call Inez, 
about whom he had thought most. Her image 
had been uppermost in his mind during the five 
lonely years of his absence and it was mostly to 
see her that he now came home . He had noticed 
the change gradually come over her by her letters 
which had grown fewer and shorter than they 
were at first and he sometimes wondered as he 
read them over and over again if some proud 
rival was the cause of this apparent strange- 


16 A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 

ness. ‘‘No, it cannot be so,” he would say to 
himself for he could only think of Inez as he had 
last seen her, and he was hardly prepared to find 
her changed as much in appearance as she had. 
No longer the merry laughing child of fifteen that 
he had left her, our heroine had grown to a beau- 
tiful and dignified young lady who was already 
beginning, to win many brilliant friends and who 
bade fair to become one of England’s fairest and 
most adored queens of society. Despite of all her 
rare advantages she was not spoiled for she pos- 
sessed a noble intellect combined with a loving 
disposition. 

Had Walter returned home when he was first 
expected four years before, Inez would in all prob- 
ability have run to meet him with open arms, 
telling him how glad she was to see him. Now 
she met him almost coldly, (so it seemed to him,) 
but told him he was welcome home and she hoped 
he had come to remain. Her dignity at first al- 
most grieved him, but in a few days it seemed in 
part to die away, and she became more like the 
Inez of ©Id. They were once more the com- 
panions they had been in those days. Together 
these two often drove through the country, and 
rowed on the river that crossed the Ashleigh es- 
tate, visited the scenes so dear to them in child- 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


IT 


hood, sometimes accompanied by friends or mem- 
bers of the family, together they strolled by 
moonlight through the grounds during the long 
summer evenings, or joined the family on the ve- 
randa, or in the parlor. These were bright and 
happy days for the two young people, but they 
were not of long duration, for before the summer 
was over Walter was obliged to return to his’ 
post of duty but not before he had won from Inez 
a promise to become his bride. This promise was 
sealed by the consent of her parents, whose one 
great hope had been to see their daughter mar- 
ried to the son of one w 7 ho had been one of their 
dearest friends. Before Walter had been left an 
orphan, the two fathers had planned this wedding,, 
hoping in this way to join two of the oldest and 
most aristocratic families in England, Walter 
being the only heir of the Tracys, while Inez, then 
the lord’s only child, was the only descendant of 
the Ashleigh family. 

Little over a year later, Walter’s time in India 
having expired, he hastened home to claim his 
bride, and great preparations were made for the 
wedding which was to take place during the 
Christmas holidays. It was talked of every- 
where that the Ashleigh or Tracy families were 
known, and many looked forward to the great 


is 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


event. Not only were the preparations being 
tnade at the home of Lord Ashleigh, but also in a 
beautiful mansion on the suburbs of London, 
which, for many years, had been in possession of 
the Tracy’s, but had been closed since a few 
months before the death of Walter’s father. It 
Was now opened and being refurnished for the 
young couple who, after a short honeymoon in 
southern Europe, were to make their home there 
during the winter, while the summer months were 
to be spent at the old Tracy homestead, an old 
fashioned but pleasant place a few miles from 
ToireUce. 

The young officer was almost a constant com- 
panion of his affianced during this Christmas eve 
and many were the admiring glances cast upon 
them, and the compliments paid them as they 
passed through the great hall. She, fair and 
slight, the picture of maidenly grace and beauty; 
he, tall, dark, and stately, a handsome man and 
a perfect soldier in every respect. How well 
fitted they were for each other everybody said, 
and what a happy event their marraige would be. 
Lord Aehleigh heard all of these remarks and lis- 
tened to them with no slight feeling of pride. 
Even the bride elect herself could have been 
scarcely happier than he, for in her marriage 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


19 


was to be accomplished one of the greatest 
dreams of his life, namely, to have his child bear 
the honored name of Tracy. 

The evening was quite far advanced when sup- 
per was announced, and the party were soon seat- 
ed around a well-filled table, Walter and Inez oc- 
cupying places near the head of the table on the 
right of Lord Ashleigh. The meal was a very 
pleasant one, for all present did their utmost to 
contribute to the mirth of the evening; toasts for 
the happiness of our young friends were drank by 
all present, and there was not one who did not 
join in wishing them many years of undisturbed 
bliss. Not one, I said, but still even in that, 
select circle of dear friends and relatives, a 
Judas sat and drank with the others — drank the 
happiness and long life of his own intended 
victim. 

The meal was over but the company had not 
left the table when the bell in the tower of the 
neighboring chapel began tolling for midnight 
Mass. All arose at the sound and left the hall 
soon returning arrayed in hats and wraps A 
procession was formed and they marched to the 
chapel which, on entering, they found nearly half 
full of peasants from the neighboring cottages. 
Among a profusion of flowers many of which 


20 A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 

Lady Ashleigh had sent from her own conserva- 
tory t«o adorn the altar, burned scores of wax 
tapers, and one glance at the crib, (Inez’s gift to 
the church), would almost make one believe they 
beheld the stable at Bethlehem. The image of 
the divine child lying on the straw in the manger, 
his blessed mother and foster father, the three 
kings from the far east and the shepherds looked 
as if they were living, while the animals had on 
their faces aD almost human expression of tender- 
ness and sympathy for the infant. Figures of 
angels suspended from the ceiling of the cave too 
were there and the soft rays of the candles and 
different colored lights gave it a very beautiful 
aspeot. 

The old parish priest soon appeared on the altar 
robed in white vestments and behind him walked 
his assistant, a newly ordained priest, and several 
scarlet robed altar boys. The deep rich tones of 
the organ resounded through the edifice and 
the singing mingling with it tilled the hearts 
of all with joy and gladness, especially the “Glo- 
ria,” that dear old hymn first sung by angel voices 
on the night that Christ was born. There was not 
one present whose heart was more thrilled with 
joy by these words than the young girl who so 
soon was to bid farewell to her maidenhood days. 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


21 


i ‘Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax homini- 
bus borne voluntatis,” Gloria be to God on high, 
and on earth peace to men of good will). How 
these words resounded again and again in her 
heart, and in her happiness she felt that in the 
whole world there could not be a person who knew 
the meaning of them that could have anything 
but the most sublime feeling in their hearts, es- 
pecially if they could hear them sung as she had 
just listened to them. Alas, poor Inez, little did 
she dream of the cold hard hearts that could not 
be moved even by the most sublime words for m 
he»r happiness she thought of nothing but peace and 
love. As the sweet words the “Adeste Fideles” 
sounded in her ears, she sank deeper and deeper 
into her reverie until it seemed as if angel voices 
were singing as the shepherds had heard them 
from the plains of Bethlehem eighteen hundred 
years ago. All, all, was forgotten by our young 
heroine now and as she knelt there, almost un- 
conscious of the presence of any one, with her 
eyes fixed upon the tabernacle, she wondered how 
any one could feel such undisturbed bliss as she 
now enjoyed. 

When the Mass was over the assistant priest 
spoke a few touching words on the birth of the 
Saviour, who, for the redemption of mankind, had 


22 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


come into this world, leaving the joys of Heaven,, 
to be born in a manger on a cold December night, 
and to live and die as one of the lowliest of Hi& 
creatures. The congregation was then dismissed, 
and when, after a farewell prayer they left the 
holy place, they almost felt as if they had seen 
the Infant Saviour and received his blessing. 

The company returned to the hall, where they 
stopped for a few minutes to exchange a merry 
Christmas before retiring to their own apart- 
ments. Walter Tracy was standing in front of 
one of the windows talking with a friend named 
Sir Edward Sarsdale, when the report of a pistol 
was heard. Walter staggered and would have 
fallen had he not been caught in the strong arms- 
of his friend. The ball, which had been fired by 
some one outside had struck him, and he had every 
appearance of death. Inez had been in a distant 
part of the hall, but she was at his side in an in- 
stant, and as Sir Edward was about to lay him on 
the floor she lifted his head on her lap. The 
crowd gathered about him, and it was with much 
difficulty that a physician who was among the 
guests made his way to him. It was whispered 
that he was dead, but Inez, who had wonderful 
control over herself, insisted that he still breathed. 
The doctor motioned them to keep back and be 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


23 


silent; then putting his ear to the victim’s breast said 
that he still lived, but the room must be cleared 
or he would smother. 

£ ‘ Let two of you carry him to a bed, ’ ’ he said, 
“and the others must leave the room.” The or- 
der was obeyed, and Walter was taken to one of 
the servant’s rooms, a little chamber just off from 
the hall. On examining the wound the physician 
found that it was a fatal one, and although there 
was little chance of the patient’s living more than 
a few hours, he hardly dared to tell the truth to 
the dear friends anxiously waiting for him to 
speak. Beside him stood Lord and Lady Ash- 
leigh and their son with white and anxious faces; 
but saddest of all was the sight of the young girl, 
whose pale blue dress was covered with stains of 
fresh blood. 

W alter had been unconscious since he fell, but a 
few minutes after the examination he opened his 
eyes and asked what had happened, but before 
anyone could answer he began talking as in a de- 
lirium: “Yes, I know how it was now,” he said, 
“I am very badly hurt. I have been dreaming 
that I was back in India and had been on the bat- 
tle field all day. Scores were falling on every 
side of me and my own horse fell dead from under 
me, but I, as if possessed of a charmed life escaped 


24 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


unhurt. I was sitting outside my tent in the 
evening talking over the day’s victory with a few 
surviving comrades when a murderer coming from 
behind shot me and I fell.” He ceased speaking 
for he was very weak from loss of blood and the 
great drops of perspiration on his forehead told 
only too plainly that death was near at hand. 4 ‘He 
is failing fast, ’ ’ the physician whispered to the 
lord, “and we had better call the priest at once.” 

“Yes, send for the priest,” said Walter, who 
had overheard the doctor’s words despite of the 
precaution he had taken to keep them from him, 
and I would like to have a lawyer to draw up my 
will.” Inez turned deathly pale at these words 
but she neither spoke or shed a tear. 

The priest who had been called in and was wait- 
ing outside the door for the summons now entered 
and the young man was left alone with him to 
make his peace with his creator. In a few min- 
utes the physician and the family of Lord Ash- 
leigh, the only ones permitted to see the dying 
man, were called in to be present when he received 
the last sacred rites of the church. They all knelt 
and Walter himself joined in answering the prayers 
said by the priest. He seemed to have gained a 
new strength and had no fear of the approaching 
end. This over, the village attorney who in the 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


25 - 


meantime had been sent for was called in to draw 
up the will in which the entire Tracy estate with 
the exception of a few hundred pounds given to 
charitable institutions was bequeathed to Inez. 
The young girl would have protested against re- 
ceiving his property but she knew that he was 
dying, and to argue with him besides being useless 
would only cause him pain; furthermore Walter 
being the sole owner and only heir to the estate it 
would necessarily go to - strangers after his death. 

Walter now called Inez to his side, and as sho 
knelt at the head of his bed he clasped her right 
hand, which he held firmly until after death, 
when his stiffened fingers were unlocked from 
around it. “Inez,” he whispered, “there is one 
thing I wish to ask you, a promise I want you to 
make. Will you make it?” 

“Yes, ” she said, “I will not refuse anything 
you ask.” 

‘ ‘It is this , 5 ’ and his voice grew fainter, ‘ ‘ that 
you will forgive my murderer with your whole 
heart, as I forgive him, and hope that God will 
forgive me; pray for him that he may repent, and 
God may forgive him; not only that, but if he is 
ever found and tried, promise me that you will 
never appear in the court against him.” 

It was a hard promise to be made.by one who had 


26 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


been robbed of so much by a cowardly assassin, 
who appeared to have no motive for his crime, for 
she knew well that Walter was honored and loved 
by all who knew him; but who can refuse to com- 
ply with the last request of a dear friend whose lips, 
as he asked that favor, were already stiffening in 
death? With a trembling voice Inez said ‘ 4 Wal- 
ter, for your sake I promise all you ask.” A 
look of joy covered his pale face, and he pressed 
her hand to his lips. Before he could speak she 
whispered something in his ear. No one knew 
what it was, but it caused that bright look to again 
light up his features. “Thank you, Inez,” he 
said, i ‘ you are a brave girl, and may God bless 
and give you happiness.” Turning to the rest of 
the family he said, ‘ ‘and you too, I could never 
thank you enough for all your kindness to me 
since the death of my own dear parents, for you 
have been all to me that you could have been. 
May God bless you, and grant that we may all meet 
in Heaven.” 

The priest, seeing that the end was near, com- 
menced the prayers for the dying. All joined in 
answering them, and Walter’s voice might be heard 
now and then in broken accents as he tried to join 
them. The prayers over, Walter said in a low but 
distinct voice, while his eyes rested upon a crucifix 
on the wall. “May God forgive the one who has 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 27 

caused my death.” These were his last words, and 
in a few minutes more his soul was with its Crea- 
tor, where it still continued pleading for forgive- 
ness. 

i i He is dead, ’ ’ said the doctor, advancing to- 
ward the bed, to lead Inez away; but with his last 
breath she had swooned, and her head lay on his 
pillow. What a melancholy picture it was, that 
the first grey streaks of light on that Christmas 
morning fell upon, as they stole in through the 
window. Side by side were these two, who, less 
than eight hours before had been wished many years 
of happiness; he, cold in death; and his bride 
elect, kneeling senseless at his side. Tenderly they 
raised her and carried her to her own room, where 
all day she lay in a stupor, realizing nothing 
that passed around her. 

How sad it was for this brave young soldier who 
had been in the fiercest of battle seeing comrades 
fall on every side and still escaping unhurt to die 
now at the hand of a cowardly murderer far away 
from the field of battle with no laurels to cover 
his grave. Not from his country, but we doubt if 
there are many in his position who have received 
brighter laurels of immortality above, than the sol- 
dier who in all things had remembered what he 
owed to his God as well as to his country. Al- 
though his position had exposed him to many 


■28 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


dangers and temptations, he had led a very exem- 
plary life and was always prepared to meet his 
Creator, for as he often said the life of a soldier is 
full of dangers and he knew not at what moment 
he might he called from this earth. 

He died not on the battle field, 

Nor by the sword he fell, 

But he was murdered by the side 
Of the maiden he loved so well. 

For five long years he’d bravely fought 
Upon the battle field. 

He’d led a gallant English band 
To the foe he would not yield. 

A shining light he’d been to them, 

To those soldiers strong and brave. 

While they were thinking of this earth 
His thoughts to God he gave. 

He left them for to claim his bride 
The one he loved so dear, 

Little dreaming while by her side 
That the hand of death was near. 

But jealous eyes were on him bent 
As by her side he stood, 

And ere their wedding day had dawned 
For her he shed his blood. 

No laurels crown his earthly tomb 
To tell of battles won, 

But wreaths of immortality 
By angel hands are spun . 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


29 


CHAPTER II. 


8 soon as Walter had been removed from the 



^ hall after being shot, a party of the gentle- 
men guests started out in search of the one who 
had fired the shot. The band was headed by Sir 
Edward Sarsdale, the young gentleman who was 
talking with Walter when he fell. His home was 
in London and he was one of the lord’s most inti- 
mate friends, one who always took a prominent 
part in all the social gatherings at his home and 
was considered a very important personage by all 
of the family excepting Inez, who, while for her 
parents sake had always treated him well, had from 
her very first acquaintance with him. When she was 
but a mere child she felt a secret dislike for him 
which she could not fathom and she had often 
wondered how her parents could be so attached to 
him. Although always very cordial and pleasing 
in his manners, he at times seemed to her to be 
cold and unfeeling and she sometimes thought 
this was why she dreaded him so. 

The place just outside the window where the 
assassin had probably stood when he fired the shot 
was first examined but the snow had already drifted 


30 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


so as to nearly fill the tracks which could be traced 
but a short distance then disappeared in the drifts. 
To add to the difficulty the night was very dark 
and the wind blew in such gusts that the torches 
could not be kept burning. The whole of the 
grounds and all of the out-houses on the place 
were searched but to no avail. The party also 
went through the entire village visiting many of 
the cottages to see if the murderer had taken 
refuge in any of them but with the same ill luck. 
The day had already dawned when after raising 
great excitement all over the village the party re- 
turned to the mansion to report the fruitlessness 
of their search and to learn that Walter Tracy was 
dead. • 

The chapel during Mass on that Christmas morn- 
ing was not as full as it had been in former years 
and the minds of many who were present were not 
on the divine mysteries being enacted on the altar, 
or, altogether on Bethlehem’s babe, for the knowl- 
edge that a murder had been committed in their 
peaceful village filled them with horror and they 
could think of nothing else. When their prayers 
were asked for the happy repose of the soul of the 
departed one, there was scarcely a dry eye in the 
church and all joined in a heartfelt prayer. These 
simple peasants had long looked forward to the 
wedding of the young girl who had been brought 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


31 


Ttip in their midst and had always been so dear a 
friend to them. It was to have been a great day 
in the history of their village and the night before 
while her health and happiness was being drunk 
from silver cups and costly glasses in her own 
beautiful home they had drunk it with loving 
hearts from their humble boards, — but now that 
wedding was never to take place. 

But to return to the mansion, — The rooms which 
had been so handsomely decorated for the Christ- 
mas holidays and for the wedding had all been 
closed excepting two large parlors which were 
separated only by a wide arch hung with heavy 
silken draperies. These were darkened so as to 
admit scarcely any light from the outside and were 
draped in mourning for it was here that the body 
of Walter Tracy lay in state. In the further end 
of the inner room he lay in a plain black coffin. 
Forming a sort of a canopy over the head of it 
were two English flags draped in black. A cruci- 
fix also stood at the head of the coffin and on each 
side were three tall wax candles. There was not 
a flower in the room. The deathlike stillness 
would almost make one think they were in a vault, 
notwithstanding the frequent visits paid the room 
by many of the people from the cottages as well 
as those in the mansion who came to take a fare- 


32 


A HEROINE CF CHARITY. 


well glance at the face of one whom many of them 
had known from childhood and to offer a prayer 
for him. 

It was here that Inez came alone the morning 
after Christmas at the same hour when she was to 
have been married. She brought with her a 
bunch of white roses tied with a white ribbon and 
laid them on the coffin lid. They were the flowers 
that had been intended for her bridal bouquet and 
it was she who stole away to the conservatory on 
leaving her room that morning and plucked them 
when no one saw her to bring them here. She stood 
for a few minutes gazing upon the marble features 
of the sleeper, then fell upon her knees beside the 
coffin there to renew the promises made Walter 
just before his death* and to pray for strength to 
keep them. For a long time she knelt there in 
silence with no one to disturb her, and not a sigh 
fell from her lips or a tear from her eyes. One 
of the guests was about to enter the room but see- 
ing her there had closed the door softly and 
remained outside as a guard to keep all intruders 
away until he heard her approaching the door then 
he went away unobserved by her. After one last 
lingering glance at the pale face she had not seen 
until that morning she returned to her own room 
which she did not leave again until the morning of 
the funeral. 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 33 

The next morning the young soldier was taken 
to the chapel, which was crowded to overflowing 
not only with those living in the village and neigh- 
boring country, but also many friends and brother 
soldiers who had come a long distance to pay their 
last tribute of respect to the one whose wedding 
they had hoped to attend. A solemn requiem Mass- 
was sung by the old parish priest; a young priest 
who had once been a schoolmate and dear friend 
of Walter’s acting as deacon, and the curate as sub - 
deacon. At the close of the funeral services the 
young man was borne to the family burial lot, where 
he was laid beside his parents. The lot was now full, 
for the last of the Tracy family was gone. Inez 
had controlled herself with a superior strength 
during it all, never shedding a tear until the coffin 
had been lowered into the ground, and the first 
shovel of earth thrown upon it. The sound seemed 
to arouse her as if from a stupor, and with an ago- 
nizing cry she broks into a passionate flood of tears 
and fell helplessly into the arms of her brother, 
who stood by her side. She had to be carried 
home, and for several days she neither left her 
room, or saw any one except her own family and 
her maid. 

In the meantime the search for the murderer 
had continued day and night, but as yet nothing 
could be found out. Two skillful detectives from 


34 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


London had arrived the day after Christmas and 
went to work with a strong will to clear up the 
mystery. They worked diligently for several 
weeks, disguising themselves in every way, and 
visiting every part of the country without finding 
any clues, until at last, when they were about to 
give up the search as fruitless, suspicion fell upon 
a strange young man who had been working in 
Torrence during the winter. Many of the people 
of the village had endeavored in vain to find out 
who he was, or whence he had come, and his si- 
lence about his history had naturally caused him 
to be disliked by many of his associates. It was 
rumored that he had left the village on Christmas 
*eve a few hours before the murder had been com- 
mitted, and did not return for four weeks. He 
looked much thinner and paler than when he went 
away, and when asked where he had been he re- 
fused to tell. 

Suspicion at once naturally fell upon him; but 
when the charge was made against him he denied 
it, saying that he had left town four hours before 
midnight, and had heard nothing of the murder 
until his return. His story was not believed, so 
he was arrested, had his trial, and as he still re- 
fused to tell where he had been, and no one could 
be found who had seen him since he left his boarding 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


35 


place that night, the evidence was against him, 
and he was condemned to die. When he received 
his sentence his only words were that he was inno- 
cent, and the taking of his life would be as foul a 
deed as the murder of Walter Tracy had been. 
Inez had visited him in prison, and after having a 
long interview with him had pleaded with the 
judge for his life, saying that she believed him to. 
be innocent. She was severely reprimanded for 
her persistency in declaring him innocent, and 
many were the cruel remarks passed about her, 
for nearly every one in Torrence believed him to, 
be guilty, but she bore them all, and remained 
faithful to her own convictions 

Two weeks passed after his trial and the eve of 
his execution had come. Early in the morning 
he was to be beheaded, but still Inez seemed to 
retain hope that he might yet be saved. In the 
evening the village sheriff sat alone in his room 
when two callers were announced who wished to 
see him on very important business. “Show them 
in here, he said to his daughter who had told 
him they were there. Inez entered the room ac- 
companied by a young girl of about eighteen who 
bore a striking resemblance to the condemned 
man. “I have come, ” said Inez, advanoing to- 
ward him, to prove — 


36 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


“Never mind,” said the sheriff in a tone of im- 
patience, “I know what you have come for but it 
is of no use for the evidence is so strong 
against that youthful assassin that we all know 
him to be guilty and to-morrow he must atone for 
his crime.” 

A low cry broke from the lips of Inez’s com- 
panion whom the sheriff had not noticed before. 
“The man whom you call the assassin,” she 
exclaimed “is my brother. He shall not die for 
he is innocent of the crime you accuse him of and 
I have come to prove it. ” 

The sheriff looked up in amazement and said, 
“you his sister; who are you and whence did you 
come. Tell me why your brother has acted so 
strangely in refusing to answer any questions 
about himself. “I shall be glad if you can prove 
that he is not guilty for no one regrets to see him 
executed more than I but bear in mind it will be a 
very difficult thing for you to do as the evidence 
against him is very strong and we do not want 
you meddling with the case unless you can give 
the strongest proofs. N o w let me hear your story. ’ ’ 

The girl told that “she and two brothers were 
the only children of a once wealthy family but her 
father had recently lost the greater part of his 
property and died leaving them almost penniless 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


37 


but his poverty was not known to the world. Her 
elder brother had joined the British army and only 
the younger one was left to support her. Since 
her father’s death she had been living with an 
aunt 'in a small village about fifteen miles from 
Torrence. Her younger brother wishing to hide 
their poverty from the world and to support him- 
self and help his sister whom he did not wish to 
be entirely dependent upon her aunt, had gone to 
Torrence to work where he was unknown and 
where he bore an assumed name. On Christmas 
eve he had met his aunt’s coachman about a quar- 
ter of a mile from the village and drove to her 
home where he intended spending Christmas and 
was to return to Torrence the day after. On 
Christmas he was taken severely ill and was not 
able to leave his room until a few days before his 
return to Torrence. He had heard nothing of the 
murder until he was arrested for it. His sister 
did not learn of his imprisonment until this after- 
noon when Inez drove to her aunt’s home and after 
breaking to her as gently as she could the news of 
her brother’s sajl misfortune brought her to Tor- 
rence but refrained from telling her that he had 
been condemned to die until they reached the vil- 
lage. 

The young man had resolved at first to keep his 
identity from every one but would have told who 


38 


▲ HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


he was when he received his sentence had not the 
evidence been so strong against him that he felt 
it would be of no use now and if he must die he 
would die unknown. When Inez came to him 
she with the others thought him guilty and she 
wished by telling him of Walter’s forgiveness to 
draw him to repentance. She, the one above all 
others who should have despised him, was the 
first one to show him any kindness, so after deny- 
ing the charge to her, he told her his story and 
so earnest was he in the recital of it that he at 
once excited her sympathy and she begged him to 
tell the authorities but he refused, saying he knew 
it would be useless. 

4 4 If they knew who your f riendfe were, and where 
to find them,” she argued, 44 I am certain they 
would visit them, and learn from them that you 
were not here that night.” 

4 4 I fear that they might not believe my friends, ’ ’ 
he answered, 4 ‘for it would seem almost impossible 
for me to drive such a distance on that stormy 
night, and reach home before midnight. I believe 
we were the only ones who were out in the coun- 
try that night, for but few would have dared to 
face the storm. You see if I tell wdio I am 
there is little chance of my being saved; and if I 
die, it will be to leave a stain upon my family 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 39 

name. No, it is better that I should remain un- 
known. ” 

That day he received his sentence, which was to 
be carried out two days later. The next morning 
he sent for Inez and asked her to carry a message 
to his sister after he was dead, and told her the 
way to his aunt’s home. He handed her a letter, 
charging her not to let any one know she had it, 
and not to deliver it until after his death. She 
hurried from the prison, and going home, ordered 
the coachman to see that her favorite pony was 
ready for her directly after noon, as she wished to 
drive out alone in the country. She took the road 
laid out to her by the prisoner, and after what 
seemed to her a very long drive, at last reached 
his aunt’s home, and it was from there she had 
just now returned. 

The prisoner sat alone in his cell in the morning 
awaiting his summons to the executioner’s block, 
whea he heard footsteps in the hall. For the first 
time since he leceived his sentence a feeling of 
dread came over him, for he now felt that the 
time had come for him to die alone and he would 
never again see his dear sister, but soon his dread 
was turned to happiness by the announcement that 
he was to have a new trial in a few days. The 
result of the trial was that his innocence was 


40 A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 

proved, and after thanking Inez for saving his life 
he returned with his sister to« his aunt’s home. 

Inez was now pronounced the heroine of the vil- 
lage, and those who had scorned her only a short 
time before now honored her for her nobility in 
saving the life of the accused, and it was with a 
feeling of shame that they recalled the bitter re- 
marks they had made about her. 

The detectives who had returned to London were 
again recalled to Torrence, and set about once more 
to find the murderer, and after working for some 
time without finding any clues, at last gave up 
search as fruitless. Inez, from the first, had been 
kept in a state of fear and anxiety as she silently 
watched the work of the officers. She almost 
longed, at times, to see the murderer captured 
and punished according to the full extent of the 
law; then remembering her promise to the dying 
that she would forgive him, and never appear 
against him, she would pray that he might never 
fall into the hands of the authorities, but be 
brought to a true Christian repentance. After the 
release of the accused man she hoped to see the 
murderer captured in order to more fully prove 
the innocence of him on whom the suspicion of 
some of the villagers still hung. 

No one appeared to be more interested in the 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


41 


case than Sir Edward Sarsdale, who seemed very 
anxious to have justice done, and wished to remain 
near Torrence until that wish could be gratified; 
but to his great regret he was called away to the 
continent quite unexpectedly, and did not return 
for three years. His last words in bidding Lord 
Ashleigh good-bye were that he hoped soon to 
hear that the mystery had been solved, and the 
crime avenged. 

When he returned the mystery was still as deep 
as when he went away; but it had almost passed 
into oblivion, now being seldom thought of, ex- 
cepting by those most interested in it, and even 
they had little or nothing to say concerning it. 

It was early in the month of March that Sir 
Edward arrived at the mansion as unexpectedly 
as he had gone away three years before. He re- 
ceived a warm welcome from Lord Ashleigh, who 
told him he hoped he had come to make them a 
long visit after so long an absence; but as as he had 
not yet seen his mother, who was away from home 
when he stopped in London; he remained only two 
days but promised to return after a short visit to 
his home. 

Inez was one of the first persons he met* at the 
mansion on his arrival, and he was greatly sur- 
prised to find how changed she was. No longer 


42 


A HEROINE CF CHARITY. 


the happy, light-hearted society belle of three 
years ago, but a broken-hearted woman whom he 
soon learned lived no more for herself, but for the 
good she could do for those around her. Her friends 
were the poor and the needy, while she seemed to 
care not for the company of those in better cir- 
cumstances. She spent more time now in their 
cottages than in her own home, helping the peas- 
ants in their needs, and caring for their children 
and their sick. Night after night, when she was 
supposed to be in her own room, she had stolen 
away to watch by the bedside of some invalid, re- 
lieving for a few hours, the tired watchers who 
had been with them all day. It was from her lips 
that many an afflicted one received sweet words of 
consolation when death or sorrow entered their 
homes, and they always accepted them with grati- 
tude, knowing that they came from a sympathiz- 
ing and contrite heart. How eagerly did these 
poor people look for her visits which seemed 
to bring a ray of sunshine into their homes, and 
how they blessed her whenever they saw her. To 
them she seemed more like one of themselves than 
so far superior to them in education, wealth, and 
all worldly goods . What time she spent at home 
was occupied mostly in sewing for the children, 
or thinking of some plan to alleviate the cares of 
their parents. Such, to-day, was the queenly 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


4a 


Inez who, three years before, had moved in 
society’s gayest circles, finding great enjoyment 
in it. 

In vain had Ix>rd and Lady Ashleigh tried to- 
persuade their daughter to re-enter society after the 
first few months of mourning for Walter Tracy wa6 
over, and within the past two years many brilliant 
social gatherings had taken place at their home, 
but she took no interest in them, only being pres- 
ent when she was obliged to and seldom attending 
any to which she was invited. On one occasion 
during a grand ball given at the mansion in honor 
of a wealthy Irish earl who was visiting m tho 
neighborhood she was missed from the company. 
It was only after a dilligent search of the mansion 
that it occurred to one of the servants that an old 
lady was sick in a cottage near by and it was at 
her bedside that she found her. The woman believ- 
ing that she was dying had sent a messenger for her 
and she had gone, only stopping to throw a shawl 
on over her party dress. 

Seeing that they failed here, her parents had pro- 
posed traveling on the continent and spending 
several months in Paris, but it was to no avail. 
She did not care to travel and she despised the 
very name of Paris with all of its giddy pleasures- 
and its throngs of gay people. She always an- 


44 A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 

swered them that she was far happier living as she 
was. “I have many true friends,” she would 
-•say, 4 4 although they are poor, but in society I 
should be obliged to mingle with the false as well 
as the true, and besides I can never find any 
pleasure in them.” 

Inez had always been her parents greatest pride 
as well as the idol of strangers while she mingled 
with the world, and it grieved them sorely to see 
their only and beautiful daughter turn her back 
on her adorers and live, as it were, unknown to 
the world, while, on the other hand, that busy 
throng, as they moved on, sometimes thought of 
her and wished to have her once more among 
them. Her parents had hoped that when the grief 
caused by her first lover’s death was over, she 
would marry some rich lord and become a greater 
lady than even the daughter of Lord Ashleigh. 
Her beauty, her winning manner, her wealth and 
family connections, could not fail to win for her 
such a husband as they desired her to have ; but 
as time went by they saw too plainly that she had 
no such thoughts and that in all probability she 
intended that no one should ever fill Walter 
Tracy’s place. They would sometimes console 
themselves by saying that she was still young and 
in a few years might outgrow her whims, as they 
called her mode of life. 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


45 


Sir Edward had heard of how Inez was living: 
before he saw her and he had thought her a very 
foolish person to thus hide herself away from her 
friends like a “ cloistered nun, ” as he expressed 
it. He had known her from childhood and had 
always taken great interest in her. He was now 
determined to persuade her to give up her foolish- 
ness and become his happy bride. It seemed 
easy for him who believed her to be only a weak- 
minded girl. At first when he saw her her sweet 
sad face and altered appearance had wholly dis- 
armed him. But what did he care, for he was 
one of those kind who, once his mind was set upon 
an object, would accomplish it whatever the cost 
might be. 

How proud he was in the anticipation of bring- 
ing to his mother’s beautiful London home not far 
from the Tracy mansion, the fair bride who three 
years before had been expected in that vicinity by 
many friends of his own as well as the Tracy 
fatmily, for both families moved in the same circle. 
They had been great ly disappointed in not having 
her come then, and he was certain she would re- 
ceive a warm welcome among them now. He 
would have her re-open the Tracy mansion which 
he knew belonged to her and which had been left 
just as it had been prepared for her first coming to 


46 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


it. How proud he would be to see her reign as mis- 
tress of that beautiful domain and queen of her own 
household. He knew that his position and title 
were in his favor as far as the opinion of Inez** 
parents went end he also knew himself to be one 
of Lord Ashleigh’s most esteemed and trusted 
friends. To him he would make first appeal and 
try to win Inez’s affections through her parents, 
not right away but some time in the near future, 
perhaps when he returned to make his promised 
visit if a favorable opportunity presented itself. 

Lord and Lady Ashleigh, in their affection for 
their daughter, had for the past few months al- 
lowed her to have her own way, saying nothing 
about it, although it grieved them very much to 
be obliged to do so-, and would have continued to 
let her follow her own inclinations, trusting that 
she would soon grow tired of hor melancholy life, 
had not the evil disturber come when he did. 
During his first visit Sir Edward said nothing of 
the matter but watched Inez, carefully noting 
every action and trying to learn what he could of 
her from the villagers but, still, trying to appear 
to pay little or no attention to her. On the after- 
noon of the second day he left Torrence, saying' 
that he regretted having to shorten so pleasant a 
visit but would return some time in the spring. 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


47 


There had been a time when in spite of her 
Reeling of secret dislike for this man, Inez had 
welcomed him as a friend of her parents and for 
their sake had been glad to see him, but now 
something made her feel that he was her secret 
enemy, so she felt relieved when he was gone and 
almost dreaded the time when he should return 
for his promised .visit. When he had taken her 
hand with a grasp of friendship as he bade her 
good-bye, although outwardly unmoved, she 
shrank from those fingers as she would from a 
deadly serpent coiling around her hand. “Oh 
uncharitable feeling,” she thought a few minutes 
&fter he was gone, ‘ ‘how can I who pretend to be 
:a Christian have such a hatred for one of my 
father’s friends of whom I know naught but good? 
May God forgive me for this unmerited hatred 
and help me to conquor it before he returns that 
I may at least give him such a welcome as my 
father would expect me to give.” With a repeated 
act of contrition she tried to vanish him from her 
mind. 

Trying to forget Sir Edward, it occurred to 
her that during the past two days she had entirely 
neglected to visit a little girl who was slowly dy- 
ing- of consumption in a cottage some distance 
from her home. The little invalid who was 


48 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


scarcely eleven years old was the only child of a 
very pious mother, and a father who had once been 
a model Christian but who of late although he 
had fallen into no bad habits and was still very 
kind to his wife and child; had grown very care- 
less in his religious duties, seldom attending Mass 
excepting when he did so to please them and neg- 
lecting the sacraments altogether. From her 
birth the child had been idolized by her parents 
and all of their hopes had been centered upon 
her. Now as they saw her slowly drifting away 
they were nearly broken-hearted for all that they 
cherished would be lost when she was gone, but 
Inez had been their most faithful friend and con- 
soler during the several weeks of their darling’s 
illness. To the little girl and her mother her 
coming had always brought a bright ray of sun- 
shine while the grief-stricken father seemed at 
times to be pained by her kindness. As his wife 
watched him she would sometimes whisper to 
Inez, who was her confident in all her sorrows that 
she feared the death of their little girl might 
cause him to lose his mind, as he had been very 
melancholy since her health had commenced to 
fail. 

“How is my little Bessie this evening?” Inez 
asked as she entered the room where the little 
sufferer lie. 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


49 


Tears filled the mother’s eyes as she whispered 
to Inez that her little girl had failed so rapidly 
during the previous day that she had been pre- 
pared for death that morning and she feared she 
would not live through the night. *T would 
have come earlier,” said Inez, “but Sir Edward 
Sarsdale, an old friend of father’s has been visit- 
ing us and I did not find an opportunity.” A 
deep frown darkened the face of the child’s father 
and he muttered something to himself but both the 
mother and Inez were too much absorbed in little 
Bessie to notice it. 

Inez had intended to remain but a few minutes 
but when she saw how Bessie had failed she in- 
sisted upon spending the night with her in spite 
of the father’s protestation to the contrary. He 
said that there was probably no immediate danger 
as she had had several such sinking spells lately 
and it would be too much for her to sit up all 
night. Toward midnight Bessie grew decidedly 
worse and it was feared that she was dying. On 
one side of the bed stood the weeping mother and 
Inez watching for the last, and at the foot stood 
the father with folded arms and his eyes fixed 
upon the dying child. On his face was a care- 
worn look that told he was no stranger to suffering. 

< ‘Please don’t cry so mamma,” said Bessie, 


50 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


noticing the tears in her mother’s eyes, “for I am 
so happy and have been so ever since I received 
my first Holy Communion this morning. I can 
almost see the angels in Heaven now and will 
soon be with them.” 

“When you get to Heaven, darling,” said the 
man at the foot of the bed, “I hope you will not 
forget your father.” It was the first time in 
many months that he had seemed to think of 
Heaven, or care for any one's prayers. Bessie 
smiled and said, “I am so glad, papa, that you 
want me to remember you in Heaven. I will 
think of you there, and pray for you as I have of- 
ten prayed for you here. And now, papa,” her 
voice grew weaker, “will you promise me that 
you’ll go to confession this week, receive the sac- 
raments often, and try to be better than you have 
been? Please do, papa ” 

The father gazed at her pleading for a few min- 
utes ; then answered in a strange voice that seemed 
not like his own. “Yes, Bessie, with the help of 
God’s grace I will.” 

4 4 May God bless our child, ’ ’ said the mother in 
atone mingled with joy and sorrow, “she has 
been such a comfort to us; even now, her presence 
is a blessing in our home, and oh! how can I part 
with her? ” 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


51 


“I know it is hard, ” said Inez; “but it is 
God’s will, and may be for the best. If you pray 
to Him he will give you strength to bear it.” 

The father said nothing, but stood like a marble 
statue gazing fixedly at the face of his child, until 
about half-past two, when, without a murmur or a 
groan, she gave herself up to the angel of death; 
who had been hovering over her bed, and passed 
away as quietly as if she had fallen into a peaceful 
slumber. Her father’s face was the last one she 
saw, and as she was dying he was seen to close 
his eyes for a minute as if to escape from her 
searching glance, which even in death seemed to 
read his innermost thoughts. When she was gone 
he sank helplessly into a chair and burst into a 
passionate flood of tears, such as only a strong 
man can shed. It was in vain that Inez tried to 
comfort him, but her efforts seemed only to in- 
crease his grief. 

“I know you have suffered, Inez,” he^said, in 
a tone of bitterness, “and can truly sympathize 
with the afflicted, but I have suffered more than 
you and cannot accept your sympathy — cannot 
accept it because I know that I am unworthy of 
such kindness from you. Give what you have to 
my poor wife. She is far more worthy than L ” 

Ah the mother's request Inez called in one of 


52 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


the neighbors to help lay out the child and she re- 
mained until morning when, after rendering all 
the assistance possible, she returned home, to find 
her parents not a little surprised to learn that she 
had been away all night. 

“You shouldn’t have done it, Inez, ”» said her 
mother, when she told her where she had spent the 
night,- “for you are not strong enough to lose 
your night’s rest. ” 

Inez had been reproved thus before and she 
now answered as she had then : “Mother, it is 
no more injurious to my health to spend the night 
in a work of charity than to spend it in a heated 
ball-room as I have so often done. ” 

Not content with what she had already done for 
the parents of little Bessie, Inez felt that her work 
was not finished until after the child was laid in 
her grave. It was she that had closed her lids in 
death, it was she that now bought and made the 
little white burial robe, and it was she that pre- 
pared the corpse for the coffin and laid it in as 
tenderly as her own mother could have done, then 
covered the coffin lid with white flowers from her 
own nursery. After the funeral was over she re- 
turned home with the parents to offer a few more 
words of consolation, for she was one of those few 
who seem to realize, when there is a death in any 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


53 


housekould excepting their own, that the few lone- 
ly hours after the funeral are often the saddest 
ones for mourners. It is then that those who 
came to comfort them before or, perhaps, visited 
them in their deep affliction through idle curiosity, 
think no more of them now that their dear ones 
are hidden from their sight. 

This instance was only one of the many, and by 
no means one of the greatest acts of charity per- 
formed by our brave young heroine. They were 
looked upon by the poor, and those whom she 
called her true friends, as the noblest sacrifices, 
while, on the other hand, those who had once 
known her in the social world and doted on her 
beauty, wealth aud accomplishments looked upon 
them as the greatest acts of foolishness. Let the 
wordly think what it may, such noble deeds as 
hers cannot go unrewarded, for in the record above 
all of her good works are kept by one who sees 
and knows the sincerity of her heart, and by the 
same hand that kept the record of the good done 
his comrades by Walter Tracy in a land far away 
from where he now sleeps. 


54 


A HEROTNE OF CHARITY. 


CHAPTER III. 

\ s the weeks went by and the time for Sir Ed- 
ward Sarsdale’s visit to Torrence drew near 
the feeling that Inez had when she bade him good- 
bye returned and she dreaded his coming as she 
would the entrance of an enemy into her peaceful 
home. She had conquered her hatred toward 
him, but it now again rose within her and she 
almost felt that she could not meet him but would 
like to flee from home before he came if it were 
possible. There were duties at home that needed 
her attention and to perform them she must stay 
and meet him. In a moment it came to her again 
that she knew no evil of him and that it was 
wroDg to thus give way to her own foolish scruples. 
It was now the middle of April, and that even- 
ing as she sat in the parlor with her parents a 
letter was brought in for her father. It was from 
Sir Edward, and said that he would be at the 
mansion on the first day of May. On hearing the 
letter read Inez’s first impulse was to tell her 
parents how unwelcome he would be to her and 
beg her father to write and tell him that it would 
not be convenient for them to entertain him then* 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


55 


but remembering that she had no reason to dislike 
him, she would offer no objections to his coming. 

When he had finished reading the letter, Lord 
Ashleigh turned to his wife and daughter and said, 
“I suppose Sir Edward will be welcome to you 
both.” 

“Certainly,” said Lady Ashleigh, “I shall be 
pleased to see our old friend at any time.” 

“And you, Inez ? ” asked her father. 

“Anyone who is welcome to mother and you 
are always welcome to me,” she said, with a smile 
that hid the great effort her words cost her. 

Among ether duties that Inez had taken upon 
herself was to prepare a large class of children 
for their first Holy Communion, which they were 
to receive on the feast of Corpus Christi. The 
class was to meet on the first day of May and so 
interested was Inez in them that she almost forgot 
that on that afternoon Sir Edward was expected. 
At three o’clock the children were assembled in 
the church to receive a few words of instruction 
from the priest before reciting their cathechism. 
The instructions were over and Inez had com- 
menced to hear the class recite when the church 
door opened and Sir Edward entered. She looked 
up, thinking it might be one of the children, but 
when she saw who the visitor was she turned 


56 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


again to her class and took no more notice of him. 
He had probably just arrived and had stopped to 
make a visit to the Blessed Sacrament, but this 
surprised her a little as she had always known him 
to be very indifferent to religious matters. 

He remained until the class was dismissed then 
as Inez was about to leave the church he stepped 
up to her and offered his hand saying that he was 
very happy to have been so fortunate as to meet 
her before reaching her home and at the same time 
apologizing for having intruded upon her. He 
said that he thought that there was no one in the 
church when he entered but when he found her 
there with her class he could not help admiring 
the interest she took in her work and waited to 
accompany her home. As soon as they reached 
the mansion Inez excused herself and went to her 
own room leaving her guest with her father who 
they found watching for them from the front porch 
as they came up the walk leading to the house. 

Inez had resolved that although she would treat 
Sir Edward with every respect that courtesy and 
hospitality demanded during his visit she would 
shun him as much as possible. The work she had 
taken upon herself, she did now with even greater 
interest than before trying to be away from home 
as much as she could, and when she was at home 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


57 ' 


she applied so closely to work done in her own 
room as to give her but little leisure time for the 
entertainment of her father’s guest. She seldom 
met him excepting when the family was present 
and when obliged to be in his company, she was 
very reserved, conversing very little but still en- 
deavoring to be courteous. Sir Edward on the 
other hand sought every opportunity to be in her 
company. He offered to accompany her on her 
errands of charity but she politely thanked him 
saying she preferred going alone or in company 
•of one of the servants as she had been in the habit 
of doing. He was a daily attendant at Mass not 
because it was a habit (for he cared very little for 
the church) but because he was sure of meeting 
her there. 

One evening about a week after Sir Edward’s, 
arrival he was in the parlor alone with Lord Ash- 
leigh. They had been talking of various topics 
but at last, as was often the case when the lord 
was talking with an intimate friend the conversa- 
tion drifted upon what always interested him most, 
namely, Inez. Sir Edward had been watohing 
for such an opportunity as this and now he would 
not let it pass without making one effort to gain 
his object. “ I hope you will not be offended,” 
he said, “ if as a friend I tell you candidly what I 
think of your daughter.” 


58 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


4 4 Certainly not, ” said Lord Ashleigh, “I am 
never offended to hear what my friends think of 
my daughter, especially if it is anything concern- 
ing her welfare and I am certain you could think 
•of nothing else. ” 

“Well,” said Sir Edward, “as one who is 
interested only in her welfare on account of the 
friendship I bear for your family, I would say 
that I consider her very foolish to be pining away 
and breaking her heart over one who has been dead 
so long, over three years now, when she might 
make such a brilliant member of society as you 
know she bade fair to do before his death. I do 
not mean disrespect to the name of Walter Tracy 
for but few lamented his tragic death more than 
I. On that memorable Christmas I believe that 
that there w r as not a brighter happier girl in all 
England than she — and now — on my return I 
could hardly believe that the sad faced girl I saw 
was the same bright butterfly that flitted through 
the hall that evening. I who have been away so 
long can see the change plainer than you who have 
been accustomed to seeing her every day and I 
find her only a mere shadow of her former self. ’ ’ 

4 4 1 fear she will never be herself again, ’ ’ said 
her father sadly, 4 4 my bright and happy Inez died 
that night, leaving in her place the broken hearted 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


59 - 


girl who will ever remain the same as long as she 
is with us.” 

A smile unnoticed by Lord Ashleigh played 
upon the young man’s countenance as he said, 44 as 
long as she continues leading the life of a nun as 
she is now doing, she can never be herself, such a 
life is unnatural for her and cannot bring her any 
happiness. ” 

4 4 But what can I do,” asked Lord Ashleigh, 

4 4 when she will:not change her ways which you 
may be sure cause both her mother and I untold 
sorrow.” 

4 4 Persuade her to give up that work which is 
so far beneath her and re-enter society and you 
will soon find a great:; change in her,” said Sir 
Edward. 

44 We have tried that several times,” answered 
her father, 4 4 we have had a number of social 
gatherings at our home on her account but it was 
of no use for she took no interest in them and has 
even left when her compnny was most wanted and 
gone to some miserable cottage. She says she is 
far happier as she is, working for the welfare of 
others, than she would be to return to the social 
world.” 

4 4 And you believe her*” asked Sir Edward. 

4 4 How can a young lady of her age and position 


60 A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 

be happier spending her time in the miserable 
homes of those uneducated peasants than in com- 
pany of refined people of her own rank who are 
the only fit associates for her?” 

‘ ‘ My daughter is the very embodiment of truth, ” 
said the father, “and has never deceived her 
mother or me; so I know she would not say she 
was happy, if she were not.” 

“That may be true,” said the young man, “but 
my idea is that it is herself she is deceiving in 
making herself believe that she is really happy 
when in reality she is very miserable.” 

“Impossible,” said Lord Ashleigh, “how can 
that be?” 

“You know Inez was very young when she left 
society and she saw so little of it that she learned 
nothing of its enjoyments, then entering upon this 
work at a time when she cared for nothing else 
soon grew accustomed to it and now does not wish 
to give it up. Besides being so far beneath her 
it gives her more time to brood over her own sor- 
row which should have been forgotten long ago.” 

Lord Ashleigh was silent for a few minutes as 
if pondering upon the words just spoken by his 
young friend It was something that had never 
before entered his mind and could it be possible 
that it was true ? Could his darling daughter be 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


61 


deceiving herself ? If such were the case he would 
do all in his power to change her, but the next 
question was what was he to do for he had tried 
everything he could think af but to no purpose. 

4 4 1 think a few months travel on the continent 
would do Inez as much good as anything,” sug- 
gested Sir Edward, 4 4 or you might take her to 
Paris and introduce her into society there. I 
have many friends among the elite of that city 
who would only be too happy to make her 
acquaintance. You see the chief object is to get 
her away from the scene of that tragedy and the 
grave of the victim and have her make new friends 
who know nothing of her sorrow and cannot 
remind her of it. ’ ’ 

44 1 have mentioned what yon suggest to Inez,” 
said Lord Ashleigh, 4 4 but she does not care to 
travel and seems to have a great aversion to the 
city of Paris.” 

4 4 You should insist upon it,” was the reply, 
44 1 am certain that you would have very little 
difficulty in persuading her to comply with your 
wishes if you did, for from what I have seen of 
her, I believe as much as she likes to have her own 
way, she is still one of those obedient girls who 
would not refuse anything that she saw her par- 
ents hearts were set upon. I expect to return to 


62 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


the continent in about four or five weeks and 
would be pleased to go in your company if you 
think that yourself and family can be ready by 
that time.” 

“ A brilliant suggestion,” said Lord Ashleigh, 
“for which I thank you very much, but I think 
we can hardly be able to go so soon as my son will 
not be home from Oxford until about three or four 
weeks later and I do not wish to leave home until 
he can accompany us.” 

“You can let him know where we will be when 
school closes and he can join us there,” said Sir 
Edward. 

“I will talk the matter over with Lady Ash- 
leigh,” said the lord, “and in a day or two will 
try to decide what to do. If this plan succeeds 
in again making my daughter the happy girl that 
she was three years and a half ago, I can never 
thank you enough for the interest you have taken 
in her . I shall then indeed believe that it was a 
happy day for me and my family when you came 
to my home.” 

“If you do as I suggested I am certain that 
you will meet with success,” said Sir Edward, 
“but I think it best not to let Inez know any- 
thing of your plans until the arrangements for tho 
journey have all been made.” 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


63 


The two men shook hands as they bade each 
other good night and went to their own rooms, 
one thinking of the great happiness of restoring 
his daughter to the happy girl she had been and 
to the society where her absence had been so 
greatly lamented; the other rejoicing over the one 
point gained in his favor from the 4 { old man ” as 
he laughingly called Lord Ashleigh to himself. 
Could Inez have seen Sir Edward that night as he 
sat in his room rejoicing over the exploit of the 
evening, with a wicked smile on his face, she 
might not have thought that her suspicions of him 
were ungrounded. 4 ‘ Make Inez as light-hearted 
as she was before that night,” he muttered half 
aloud, -‘it will be impossible, for her’s is too sen- 
sitive a nature ever to forget that scene, but what 
do I care if I can win her for my beautiful bride 
and become master of the grand old Tracy man- 
sion ?” 

The next day Lord Ashleigh spoke to his wife 
of the proposed journey, telling her all that Sir 
Edward had said, and laying the argument before 
her in such a forcible manner that she was soon 
made to believe as her husband did. As the one 
hope of the mother’s as well as of the father’s life 
since that fatal night when Walter Tracy was mur- 
dered was to restore Inez to what she had been be- 


64 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


fore, she now joined her husband in thanking Sir 
Edward for the kind interest he took in their 
daughter. That there was any selfish motive be- 
hind it never once entered their mind. 

It was decided that they should go to Paris with 
Sir Edward, and remain there a few weeks until 
Inez had made the acquaintance of some of his 
friends, and her brother had joined them. The 
summer was to be spent traveling, in the fall they 
would return to Paris and remain there all winter. 

Preparations were commenced at once, but 
everything was done so cautiously that Inez sus- 
pected nothing until the fourth of June, when her 
mother told her that they were to leave home on 
the morning of the eighth. Sir Edward had been 
gone two weeks, and nothing was said of meeting 
him. 

Inez could scarcely believe her ears, for she 
knew that her parents were not over fond of being 
away from home even for a few days, and thought 
they had entirely abandoned the idea; they had 
had some traveling with her some time before, 
so that now the fact that they were going away to 
remain nearly a year quite surprised her. She did 
not wish to leave home, and to add to her disap- 
pointment in going, the ninth of the month was the 
feast of Corpus Christi, the day on which the chil- 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


65 


clren were to receive their first Communion. She had 
worked with untiring zeal to prepare them for that 
great event, and had looked forward to it with al- 
most as much joy as they, thinking of the time, when 
as an innocent child, she herself had approached 
the holy table for the first time. W ith her own hands 
she had made two or three of the white dresses 
for little girls whose mothers had no time to make 
them, and was busy sewing on another when her 
mother came to her with the unwelcome news. If 
she could remain at home two days longer to share 
her little friends’ happiness with them she would 
be more content to go; but the arrangements for 
the trip had already been made, passage engaged, 
and they were to sail early on the morning of the 
ninth, so there could be no delay. 

Leaving her mother she hastened to her own 
room, and would have given vent to her feelings by 
a passionate burst of tears; but she had no time 
for this, as it was nearly three o’clock, time for 
her to be with the children in the church, and she 
must try to appear cheerful before them. Tears 
stood in her eyes as she stood by the window 
watching the little groups assembling in front of 
the chapel, and looking now and then toward her 
home, as if expecting to see her coming. She 
could not meet them there for she feared that their 


66 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


welcome would entirely unnerve her, so she waited 
until the clock in the steeple had struck three and 
the children had all gone in the chapel; then 
putting on her hat she went over. 

She kept a smiling face during the instructions, 
and intended to tell the children as they were 
leaving the church that she was going away, but 
she could not bear the thoughts of the disappoint- 
ment it would cause them, so she did not leave the 
•church with them as usual, but remained until 
they were all gone, then went out through the ves- 
try door to escape them. She intended telling 
them in the morning, but no need of it then, for 
one of the servants at the mansion, who had acci- 
dentally heard Lady Ashleigh talking of it had 
told it the evening before, and nearly every one in 
Torrence knew that they were going away. 

On Monday morning she spent nearly an hour 
with the children before they went on their re- 
treat, and several times during that day and the 
next, she stole into the chapel for a few minutes 
while they were there. Wednesday morning she 
was one of the first in the chapel to attend Mass 
and also to receive Communion before starting on 
her journey. When Mass was over she bade each 
one good-bye at the door, telling them not to for- 
get to say a prayer for her on the morrow and al- 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


67 


ways to try to keep as pure as they were now. 
The parting was even harder than she had antici- 
pated, for the children wept and begged her to re- 
main with them just until after to-morrow, and 
she was obliged to tear herself away from some of 
the little girls who clung to her as if they would 
force her to remain. 

Little over an hour later, in company with her 
parents, Inez was on her way to London, where 
another disappointment accompanying her leaving 
home was awaiting her. She did not know that 
Sir Edward was to accompany them, and had con- 
soled herself by thinking that she would enjoy the 
company of her parents and brother alone, until 
he met them on their arrival in the city. Inez’s 
heart sank within her when she learned that he 
was going, and she longed to be home again, or al- 
most anywhere where she might escape him. He, 
as usual, was very gracious, and seemed overjoyed 
to see his friends. “I am so glad you are going 
to visit the continent, ” he said to her, “ for I am 
certain that it will do you a great deal of good. 
I can already see that you are looking better.” 
This remark was intended more for Lord Ashleigh 
than for his daughter to whom it was addressed. 
It pleased him, but she listened to it in silent 
contempt. 


68 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


The party sailed from Liverpool before day- 
break on the feast of Corpus Christ i, and at 
half -past eight they were quite a distance out in 
the English Channel. Inez sat alone near the edge 
of the deck, thinking of home and watching the 
land as it receded farther and farther away until 
at last it was invisible, then when only the green 
waters were in sight another picture arose be- 
fore her mental vision ; it was the picture of about 
twenty little girls in spotless white, wearing long 
veils and wreaths of white flowers, and as many 
more boys in black, as they entered the dear little 
chapel so many miles away. She saw the white-robed 
priest on the altar and could almost hear the sweet 
strains of the 44 Kyrie Eleison" and the deep rich 
tones of the organ over which her own fingers had 
so often wandered during divine services, mingled 
with the waters through which the vessel ploughed. 
She thought of the children who, * as after the 
4 ‘Domine non sundignus” had been pronounced, ap- 
proached the holy table for the first time to receive 
their Blessed Redeemer into their innocent souls. 

4 4 May God bless and preserve those dear little 
ones,” she half whispered to herself just as a hand 
was laid on hei; arm. Raising her eyes she saw 
Sir Edward standing beside her. 

44 Please pardon me, Inez, for intruding upon 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


69 


you,” he said, “but you looked so lonely sitting 
here alone that I wished to ask you to join a crowd 
of us on the other side of the boat.” Inez 
thanked him for his thoughtfulness and went with 
him to the other side, although she preferred re- 
maining undisturbed where she was. 

The weather during the voyage was delightful, 
just what anyone who is fond of the water would 
have enjoyed, but Inez thought not of the weather, 
for her heart was in her home and she was won- 
dering how long it would be before she would be 
there agaia. 

Arriving in Paris, they took a suit of rooms in 
one of the most fashionable hotels in the city and 
for the next three weeks they made their head- 
quarters there, while the greater part of the time 
was spent in making acquaintances, calling, re- 
ceiving calls and visiting the different places of in- 
terest. The first week in July Lord Ashleigh’s 
son joined them and two days later found the party 
on their way to Norway and Sweden, where they 
remained until the last of the month, when they 
retraced their steps toward the countries of South- 
ern Europe. 

It was the middle of September when they ar- 
rived in the grand and ancient city of Rome. 
Inez had always had a great desire to visit this 


70 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


city with its many beautiful churches and ancient 
monuments of Christianity, and the thought that 
she would see it before returning home made her 
journey through the other countries more pleasant 
than it would otherwise have been. With her 
parents and Sir Edward she visited St. Peter’s and 
received the blessing of the Supreme Pontiff and 
head of the church. 

Everywhere in that holy city new and sublime 
granduers presented themselves, and she would have 
been truly happy there had it not been for one 
thing, — Sir Edward seemed to haunt her like a 
dark shadow wherever she went and it was in vain 
that she strove to shun him. He knew the city of 
Rome as well as though he had always lived there, 
and insisted upon going with her whenever she 
went out. 

Nowhere had she been more affected than in the 
Colosseum, for she felt that she could almost see 
the countless number of holy men and women — yes, 
and even mere children, who had hallowed every 
inch of that sacred ground by bloodshed in defense 
of the faith which she herself professed. Brightest 
among these pictures in her mind was the form of 
a beautiful golden-haired girl of scarcely thirteen, 
who stood bravely before the vast crowd of hard- 
hearted heathen spectators and offered herself to be 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


71 


tortured rather than deny her faith by sacrificing 
to their false gods. She had consented to suffer a 
most cruel death sooner than break her vow of 
virginity and marry one who had promised her free- 
dom, long life and happiness. She would not dishon- 
or her heavenly spouse by giving to another the 
heart she had consecrated to Him. All that our 
heroine had read of the terrible tortures of this 
holy child came back to her mind. She saw the 
heavy iron fetters as they fell from the arms too 
small to hold them and heard the prefect, after 
finding that her faith could not be shaken, com- 
mand her to be beheaded. Cheerfully she had 
received the stroke of the executioner’s ax which 
had severed her head from her body and sent her 
pure soul to its God. This was the glorious St. 
Agnes, Inez’s patron saint, whose name she bore 
(Inez is the Spanish for Agnes) and for whom 
she had always felt the greatest devotion. 

The beautiful church of St. Agnes was but a 
short distance from where our friends were stop- 
ping in Rome; and when Inez learned the way to 
it she attended Mass there every morning, but 
dearer to her was the church just outside the walls 
of Rome, where rests the relics of this saint. 

“ The tomb of Agnes graces Rome, 

A maiden brave, a martyr great, 

Resting in sight of bastioned gate, 


72 


A HEROINE CF CHARITY. 


From harm the virgin shields her home ; 

Nor to the stranger help denies, 

If sought with pure and faithful sighs.” 

— Prudentius. 

The party had been in Rome about a week when 
they visited this church, and it was while there 
that Inez was seized with a desire to follow 
her little patron’s example by receiving the veil of 
virginity if she could not like her suffer martyr- 
dom for her faith. The one to whom she had 
once given her heart had been taken from her and 
she now felt that it was because God wanted her 
himself. How she longed now to seek admission 
to one of the convents she had visited in the city 
and there hide herself away from all of the trials 
and temptations of this world, spending the re- 
mainder of her life in the service of God and doing 
good to the poor. There at least, as well as being 
where she felt in her heart was the only true home 
for her, she would be free from her enemy, Sir 
Edward, for once those sacred doors had been 
closed behind her she would never be troubled by 
him or see his face again. Her time had not yet 
come, for the sorrows of the world were to make 
a still deeper impression upon her heart before she 
bade it adieu. Her companions arose to leave the 
church and, breathing a silent prayer that her 
vocation might soon be fulfilled, she cast a linger- 
ing glance at the altar and followed them. 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


73 


That afternoon she sat alone in the parlor of the 
hotel reading the “ Life of St. Agnes,” which had 
been given to her when a child and which she al- 
ways kept with her. She had read it many times; 
before, but now being so near the scenes of the 
martyr’s triumph it was filled with new interest 
for her. She laid it down for a few minutes and 
was so deeply absorbed in her own peaceful 
thoughts that she did not hear the door as it softly 
opened nor the sound of footsteps in the room, 
until her name was spoken. Looking up she saw 
Sir Edward standing before her with a pleasant 
smile on his face, 

“Inez,” he said, “ I have for a long time been 
watching for an opportunity to speak to you 
alone, and now that it has presented itself I hope 
you will not deny me the favor, as it is on a very 
important matter.” 

Inez did not answer or even raise her eyes to the 
speaker, but would have flown from his presence 
and hid herself in her room had it been possible. 
“Inez,” he continued in a low tone, stepping 
nearer to her, “I have loved you for a long time 
— have even worshipped you from the time I 
first saw you when you were but a child.” She 
cast a look of scorn upon him, and being unable to 
speak, motioned him from her. He paid no heed 


74 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


to this but went on. “ Nothing made me so 
happy as to see you happy, and when after three 
years’ absence from home I returned to England 
last winter to find you so altered it almost broke 
my heart. I longed to see you bright and cheer- 
ful as you had once been and was rejoiced when 
your father told me of his intention to take 
you for a while away from the scenes where you 
were so unhappy. 

“ When I left England with your parents I in- 
tended to remain in France until their return but, 
thinking that tho journey might be more pleasant 
for you to have some one with you who was well 
acquainted with the countries you visited, I decided 
to accompany you. Not only that, Inez, but your 
presence has made the lour a most delightful one 
to your humble servant, myself. Now, dearest, 
in return for my affection can you not love me a 
little, can you not promise to become my happy 
bride?” 

u She did not raise her eyes from the floor, but 
said in a low, firm tone, “Sir Edward,” it is useless 
for you to talk thus to me, for I shall never 
marry. Please leave me. ” 

u Nonsense, Inez,” he said, “you do not mean 
that, you certainly do not intend to spend your 
whole life mourning over one who has already 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


75 . 


been dead nearly four years. You cannot 
afford to waste such a bright existence as yours 
in such a foolish manner.” 

44 Please do not mention the dead to me thus,” 
said Inez, 4 4 and as for meaning what I say, I do 
mean it and am happy as I am. I wish to hear 
no more from you.” 

44 Happy, Inez,” he said, you deceive yourself, 
but if you will — u Sir Edward,” she said, inter- 
rupting him, I have heard enough from you and 
you will confer a great favor upon me by leaving 
me to myself.” As he made no motion to go but 
commenced speaking again, Inez arose and ad- 
vanced toward the door. He stepped in front of 
her, and putting his hand on the knob to hold the 
door shut, said, “please stay, Inez, and hear what I 
have to say to you.” 

She turned to him and said, 4 4 Sir Edward, if 
you do not let me pass I shall cry for help.” He 
stepped back and cast a fearful glance after her as 
she passed through the door and went upstairs to 
her own room. 4 4 Heartless woman, ’ ’ he mut- 
tered to himself, 4 4 but I shall conquer in spite of 
all her stubborness and she shall yet be mine.” 

Inez declined to go down to supper that night 
on the plea that she was not feeling well, but her 
true reason was that she did not wish to meet Sir 


76 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


Edward. During the remainer of their stay in 
Rome she shunned him more than before and took 
precautions never to go out alone when she 
thought that there was any possibility of meeting 
him. 

The middle of October they bade farewell to 
the holy city of martyrs and returned to the ga,y 
fashionable city of Paris . Here Inez soon became 
a belle in some of the most fashionable circles of 
the city which she had entered very unwillingly. 
Balls, receptions and operas occupied the greater 
part of her time for Sir Edward was well known 
in some of the most select circles and a friend of 
his could not find other than a hearty welcome 
especially as she was the daughter of an English 
lord. Inez’s sweet sad face always won for her 
friends wherever she went but here she was almost 
an idol. Her manner which was almost cold on 
account of her dislike for the fashionable world 
was mistaken by many for a modest dignity and 
it won for her scores of friends instead of driving 
them from her. Others there were who being 
jealous of her tried to make their friends believe 
that she was void of all feeling for any one and 
cared for nothing but to draw admiration upon 
herself, then treat her admirers with contempt. 
Happily those who held this opinion were very 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


77 


few and they belonged to a class not worth Her 
notice. Her parents heard only the complimen- 
tary remarks about her and they were overjoyed 
to see how many admirers she had. Their great- 
est thought seemed to be of her dress which was 
the most beautiful, and they joined their friend 
Sir Edward in trying to draw admiration upon 
her. ‘ ‘ How can we ever thank our friend enough 
for all of the kind interest he takes in our 
daughter?” the lord would sometimes say to his 
wife after returning from some ball where Inez 
had appeared to enjoy herself, “for I think that 
he was right in saying Paris would do her good. 
I already believe that she has forgotten her sor- 
row and is happy as of old. ” They were deceived 
here for behind that smiling face was an aching 
heart which even in the midst of the dance which 
Inez appeared to enjoy so much longed to be 
alone and far from those giddy pleasures. 

Swiftly the weeks passed for those who enjoyed 
the amusements of society life, but slowly, oh so 
slowly for Inez and it was now the latter part of 
January . The society people in Paris were hold- 
ing high carnival for only a few weeks more and 
the season would be over. Inez’s admirers had 
increased and many looked upon her company as 
a privilege to be proud of but none more so than 


78 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


a young man who had come to Paris a few days' 
after her arrival. He was a German count and 
an only child of very wealthy parents who had 
left him an orphan a few years before. Having 
finished his education the spring before he had 
come to Paris to spend the winter. His wealth 
and high position were well known by those in 
the circle in which he moved and many sought his 
company on that account, but he spurned with 
contempt those people and made the friendship 
only of those on whom he felt that he could rely. 
Lord Ashleigh was among those few and the 
young count spent many pleasant hours in his 
rooms. 

Inez was often present when he came and did 
all that she could to make his visits pleasant for 
him because she thought that he was a good and 
noble man and one who would always be a true 
friend, but she did not dream that she was encour- 
aging his affections until her mother told her that 
he had asked her hand in marriage and had been 
accepted by both her and her husband. She told 
Inez that she could not find any one more worthy 
of her. 

Inez felt a sickening sensation come over her 
when she heard this and she burst into a passion- 
ate flood of Lars. When she was able to speak 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 79 

■she said, “Oh, mother how could you promise 
me to him when I can never marry ?” 

“Inez,” said her mother, “when you can do 
so well you should not refuse for your happiness 
depends upon it. I have reasons to think that you 
have some affections for him otherwise you would 
not have encouraged his attentions a6 you have.” 

“Encouraged him,” said Inez, “I have only 
treated him as a friend, and as such I look upon 
him, no more.” 

4 4 Then you intend to decline his offer after both 
your father and I have accepted him ?” 

4 4 Yes, mother,” said Inez, “and lam very 

sorry if he thinks that I have been trying to 

encourage his affections when I had no such 
© 

thoughts.” 

Lady Ashleigh spent nearly an hour trying to 
persuade Inez to accept the young count but she 
remained steadfast telling her mother that she 
would never marry and begging her to tell him so 
when he came that afternoon for her answer. 44 1 
will tell him no such thing,” said her mother, 4 4 for 
I do not intend that you shall reject him in this 
way. You must see him yourself when he comes.” 

4 4 Oh, mother,” said Inez, “please spare me 
the pain of meeting him whom I have wronged by 
unconsciously encouraging his attentions.” 


80 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


“You must meet him when he comes,” said 
her mother, “lam certain he will insist upon 
seeing you so prepare yourself to see him.” 

Lady Ashleigh went out and left Inez alone in 
dismay. She gave vent to her feelings for a few 
minutes by a bitter burst of tears then throwing 
herself upon her knees she prayed for forgiveness 
for the wrong she had done in causing the count 
to believe that she cared for him when she did not 
and for strength to give him the answer which her 
mother had refused to give. She felt relieved 
now but she still felt that she could not meet him.. 
After walking across the room several times she 
sat down by the table and drawing out a sheet of 
paper wrote what she had desired her mother to 
say for her. The note was very short and in 
closing she said that she esteemed him as a friend 
but he could never be any more to her. She asked 
to be excused from meeting him. Having finished 
the note she carefully re-read it several times and 
laid it away until afternoon when her mother came 
to her room to tell her that he had come. 

“Please give him this, mother,” she said hand- 
ing her the note, ‘ i and ask him to excuse me. ” 

“That will not do, Inez,” said her mother, lay- 
ing it on the table, ‘ 4 you must come down and 
see him yourself. ” 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


81 


Inez refused to go, so her mother very reluc- 
tantly took the note and left the room. In a few 
minutes she returned, saying that the guest was 
gone, but had left no word for her. The next 
day she received a letter from him telling her 
that he expected to leave Paris that day and re- 
turn to his home, and that he would always re- 
member her as a friend, and would often think 
of the pleasant hours he had spent in her com- 
pany as being among the happiest he had ever 
known. 

Inez did not regret having rejected the count 
and she felt relieved when she received his note, 
and knew that he would trouble her no more; but 
still there was a sadness in the tone of that short 
missive which made her feel that through her own 
fault she had lost a true friend, and she half 
wished that she might see him once more before 
he left the city; not to take back anything she had 
written, but to ask his forgiveness for anything 
that she might have done to hurt his feelings and 
to bid him good-bye, as she would a friend. She 
was sitting by the window, and as she looked out 
he passed. She saw him look toward her window, 
but hid herself behind the heavy lace curtain, and 
unobserved by him, watched him until he was out 
of sight. This was her last farewell. 


82 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


Lord and Lady Ashleigh were both very angry 
with their daughter for refusing to marry the 
count. It was not long ere the tidings of this 
reached the ear of Sir Edward, and he offered 
words of sympathy to her parents by telling them 
that he hoped she would soon think better of her 
foolish choice, and he believed that the count 
would not give her up so easily as they thought, 
while in his own heart he resolved that Inez should 
never again meet the wealthy foreigner who had 
given him so much cause to be jealous. He had 
watched every attention paid Inez by him, wish- 
ing that he was o«ut of his way, and now that he 
was gone he felt that the way was once more clear 
for him, and he would soon regain the undivided 
•esteem of Lord Ashleigh, which he had possessed 
before the coming of the stranger. 

o o 

Inez now longed more than ever to be in her 
6wfi peaceful home, but that pleasure was not 
granted until the latter part of May, when, after 
nearly a year’s absence, our friends arrived at 
Torrence. 

Sir Edward, having gained the consent of Inez’s 
parents to marry her if the count was not heard 
from again, had been most persevering in his 
attentions to her while in Paris, and had laid his 
plea before her again, only to be met with the 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


83 


same refusal he had received in Rome. Deter- 
mined not to give her up so easily, he paid a long 
visit to Torrence the following autumn, but she, 
shunned him more than before. 


84 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


CHAPTER IV. 


HRISTMAS eve had come again, and it was now 



^ five years since Walter Tracy had been laid 
away in the family burial lot. No guests throng the 
mansion to-night for Christmas eve had on that 
memorable night been turned from a night of joy 
and revelry to one of silence and loneliness. Al- 
though other rooms in the mansion had oft since 
been thronged with gay people, never had the 
great hall been opened to admit guests. It was 
dreary and dark there on Christmas eve, except- 
ing when partially lit by the rays of the moon, 
which gave the room a more ghastly appearance 
than ever, and revealed the dark blood stains on the 
door where Walter had fell. No yule log burned 
on the cold hearth, and only a few withered 
branches of holly and evergreen hung among the 
dust covered pictures on the wall. 

The inmates of the mansion seemed to shun the 
hall now, and among the servants a superstition 
had already sprung up that it was haunted during 
the holidays; on these nights strange sounds were 
said to proceed from it. ’Twas even said that at 
midnight on Christmas eve a light had been seen 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


85 


in the window through which the fatal shot had 
been fired. This superstition, which was probably 
founded on imagination, did not extend to any 
other members of the family, although tidings of 
it were sometimes whispered by outsiders. 

It was as cold and almost as stormy to-night as 
it had been five years ago to-night. Inez stood by 
the window of her room gazing out on the drifts, 
and wondering if there was any one in the village 
to-night who needed help. She had visited several 
of the cottages during the past two days and sent 
servants to some of the others, so that she be- 
lieved that no one had been overlooked, and felt 
that her work for to-day was done. The clock 
struck eight. Inez put on her hat and wrap, and 
crossed the street to the chapel, intending to go 
to confession. She was kneeling at the altar rail- 
ing saying her prayers when one of the priests 
was called from his confessional. He soon re- 
turned and asked her to step into the vestry, as he 
wished to speak to her. She followed him and 
learned that he had just been sent for to go on a 
sick call about five miles in the country. “I am 
sorry to ask you to accompany me, ’ ’ he said, 4 4 but 
the man cannot live more than a few hours, and 
seems very anxious to see you. Will you go, or 
do you think that it is too stormy for you to go so 


86 A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 

far at such a late hour?” 

“ I will go, father, ” she answered; ” no night is 
too stormy or too cold for me to go out when I can 
be of any service to the poor or the sick. ” 

“May God bless you for your charity, my 
child, ” said the priest, and he might have added, 
“May God help you to bear what you have to 
hear to-night, ” but he only breathed a silent 
pray for her in his heart. “The sleigh will be 
ready in a few nrnutes, he said, “and to save 
the time and trouble of going home for warmer 
wraps than what you have on, my housekeeper will 
lend you some of her’s. ” 

The daughter of Lord Ashleigh smiled at the 
thought of the queer figure she cut in the hood 
and the heavy coarse woolen shawl the kind old 
woman wrapped around her, saying as she did so, 
“It seems too cold for my dear girl to go out, ” 
but Inez cared not for she was going on an errand 
of mercy. After going what seemed more than 
twice five miles through drifts some of which it 
seemed almost impossible to pass, they saw in the 
distance a faint light, which grew brighter as they 
neared it, until they could see the window of a 
miserable hut, which seemed unfit for human hab- 
itation. 

“ There is where we are going,” said the priest^ 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


87 


pointing to the hovel. ‘ * There is a sick man there. 
I heard his oonfession and gave him Holy Com- 
munion a few days ago, but did not consider it 
necessary to anoint him until this evening when he 
was thought to be dying, and a messenger came, 
saying that he wished me to come immediately and 
bring you as he wanted to see you before he died. ’ ’ 

By this time they had reached the hut, and as 
the priest helped Inez from the sleigh, she won- 
dered who the sick man was and why he wished 
to see her. 

The priest gave a gentle tap on the door, 
opened it and walked in. They were met by a 
tall, thin woman, whom Inez recognized at once 
as the mother of Bessie, the child by whose bed- 
side she had watched three years before until 
death had relieved the little sufferer. During 
Inez’s absence on the continent the family had left 
Torrence, and although she had made several in- 
quiries about them she had until to-night been 
unable to learn of their whereabouts While living 
in the village, although poor, they had a comfort- 
able home, but here want seemed to stare them in 
the face. What they now called by the dignified 
name of home consisted only of two small rooms. 
The scanty furniture in them was of the poorest 
kind, while the dim light of a single candle and 


88 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


the poor flickering fire in the grate gave the room 
a rather dismal aspect. In a little recess off from 
the first room was a poor bed on which the sufferer 
lie asleep. 

“ I am so glad you have come, Inez,” said the 
woman, “but I hardly dared expect you on such 
a stormy night. I would not have sent for you 
but I feared that my husband could not live until 
morning and he insisted upon seeing you to-night. 
He has talked of you a great deal during his sick- 
ness and said that he would like to see you, but I 
thought it was a mere whim of his until this after- 
noon, when he told me he could not die without 
seeing you. I do not know why, unless it was be- 
cause you were so kind to our little Bessie. He 
has never been the same since our- darling died 
and I have often thought he would kill himself 
worrying about her.” 

The man turned restlessly upon his pillow and 
awoke ; he cast an eager glance around the room 
until his eyes rested upon the priest, who ad- 
vanced toward his bed. U I am glad you have 
come, Father,” he said faintly, “but did you 
bring Inez ? ” The priest told him she was there. 
“Thank God,” he said, ‘‘please leave her alone 
with me for a few minutes.” 

The priest and the man’s wife retreated to the 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 89 

little adjoining room, while Inez stepped up to the 
bed side and asked the man what she could do for 
him . 

‘ 4 Please sit in that chair at the head of my 
bed,” he answered, “I have something to tell 
you. 

“Inez obeyed, and the man after looking 
around the room to see that no one else was pres- 
ent, said in a low trembling voice, 4 4 1 have sent 
for you to-night to ask your forgiveness for a 
great injury I have done you. Please grant it to 
me, for without it I cannot die in peace.” 

“I know of no injury you could have done 
me, ” said Inez, 4 4 but if you have done me any I 
will forgive you.” 

4 4 It is easy for you to say that you will forgive 
me, but when you know what it is — he paused for 
a moment as if unable to go farther, then con- 
tinued with a voice that sounded very unnatural, 

4 4 Five years ago to-night, Inez, I murdered the 
one who in two days more would have made you 
his happy bride.” 

The blood almost froze in the young girl’s veins 
as she heard these words, her face turned deathly 
pale and she sat rigid and motionless as a statue. 

To think that she was now in the presence of 
Walter Tracy’s murderer — and he one whom she 


90 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


had always trusted and believed to be one of the 
best of men — was almost more than she could 
bear, in a moment it came back to her how 
strangely he had acted toward her when his little 
girl died and how he had rejected all of her kind- 
ness toward his family. She knew now why it 
was. 

“ You Walter Tracy’s murderer,” she mur- 
mured, “my God, it cannot be possible ; I cannot 
believe it.” 

“It is true,” said the man, “but it was not 
altogether my fault, for I loved you from your 
childhood as I would the daughter of one who 
had ever been a kind friend and helper to me. 
No one received the news of your coming mar- 
riage with more joy than I, for I always felt that 
you two were well suited for each other and I was 
glad, too, because I knew that your father’s heart 
was set on seeing you the wife of his young 
friend, I wished you every happiness from the bot- 
tom of my heart, but then at the last moment the 
evil tempter came. I was very poor and needed 
money badly at that time to pay a debt which I 
owed, but saw no way of getting it unless I asked 
your father to lend it to me. This I did not wish 
to do, for he had already done so much for me that 
I felt that I would be imposing on him, and as for 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


91 


getting it dishonestly it never occurred to me until 
— he paused for a moment, drew a deep sigh and 
continued, a man, who in some way unknown to 
me had learned my circumstances, came to me two 
days before Christmas and offered me a hundred 
pounds if I would do him a favor. A hundred 
pounds was a large fortune in my eyes, and now 
that I needed it so much I promised to do any- 
thing he Avished, little dreaming what the favor 
was to be; 1 soon learned, however, that it was to 
commit a murder. 

“I refused at first to comply with his evil 
desires, but he had given me the money, and when 
he saw how 1 hesitated he laid fifty pounds more 
beside it, saying as he did so that he hoped I was 
ready to listen to his plans as he had little time for 
del y that evening and could not see me again 
until it was too late. The temptation at the sight 
of the money was too great for me, so 1 entered 
at once into confidence with him, selling my peace 
of mind to my seducer and my soul to Satan. He 
told me his plans for the crime, which was to be 
committed, in such a way that 1 could not help 
making good my escape. He told me that he 
knew me to be one of the last ones on whom any 
shadow of suspicion could fall and promised to do 
all in his power to save me from it. After he was- 


*92 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


gone I laid the money away and took the greatest 
care to keep it hid from my wife, who was a sincere 
Christian and whose heart would have been broken 
could she have known that I ever thought of com- 
mitting so terrible a deed, even though my reward 
in gold might have been a thousand times greater 
than it was.” 

‘ 4 On Christmas eve when my dear little Bessie 
kissed me good night and asked God to bless papa 
and mamma and give them a merry Christmas, it 
seemed as if the innocent child were cursing me 
and I must break my promise to that cowardly 
man, but no, the money was in my possession and 
I must do his work or lose it and perhaps he might 
do me some great injury if I refused.” 

u My wife was not feeling very well that even- 
ing and could not go to midnight Mass, but I went 
out just as the bell rang for Mass and made her 
believe that I went. Instead of going to the 
church I went and hid myself in one of the out- 
houses belonging to the mansion until it was time 
for Mass to be over, then took my place under the 
window where I had been told to wait for the com- 
pany to return to the hall. The man who had 
hired me to commit the crime was one of your 
most honored guests that evening and he took 
special pains to see that his victim stood in front 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


93 


of the window where he had told me to wait. He, 
himself, had called him there and was talking to 
him when I drew my pistol and fired the fatal shot.” 

44 It was the work of only a moment and the 
next thing for me to do was to make my escape. 
I did not even dare to look in the window to see 
the effect of the shot, but ran across the lots, 
throwing my pistol in the river as I passed it, and 
did not stop until I had reached home. I retired, 
but not to rest, for it was a long and miserable night 
to me and it seemed , to me as if morning would 
never come. Every sound I heard I thought was 
some one coming to arrest me, even the howling 
of the wind I imagined was the echo of the cry my 
victim must have uttered if the ball struck him, 
but, oh ! how I hoped that it had not. No one 
came near my home, for the author of my crime 
kept his promise in trying to divert suspicion 
from anyone living in my part of the village. ” 

44 In the morning when the- news of the murder 
reached me and I had heard the words of sym- 
pathy spoken in your behalf by my wife, it seemed 
as if I could not bear the remorse and in my 
misery I wished that I v myself, had been the vic- 
tim. Oh! for that perfect tranquillity andpeaoeof 
mind I had felt the Christmas before, but it was 
gone, never to return. My wife knelt down and 


94 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


prayed for the departed soul, also for the repent- 
ance and forgiveness of the murderer, little dream- 
ing that she was offering up prayers for her own 
wretched husband ; I had to go to Mass with her 
and my dear little Bessie and listen to the prayers 
said for him there, (I cannot mention his name) 
but harder still was it for me to attend the funeral 
with them and there meet the assassin face to face. 
That afternoon he called on me to assure me that I 
was not suspected and to tell me to keep up my 
courage and I would probably never be found out. 
He left Torrence the same week and it was three 
years before I heard from him again.” 

The sick man paused from exhaustion, and Inez 
fearing that his voice had left him, turned to 
beckon to the priest who was sitting near the door 
in the next room, when he laid his hand upon her 
arm and said in a hoarse whisper, 1 4 1 have not 
finished yet, I have not told you who that cold- 
hearted criminal was.” 

4 4 In the name of Walter Tracy I forgive you,” 
said Inez with a great effort , 4 4 and pray God to 
do the same as Walter did with his dying breath. 
I feel very sorry for you and do not think you are 
as much to be blamed as the one who caused you 
to commit the deed, but please grant me this favor. 
I’d rather not have you mention his name, for I 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 95 

do not want to know who he is. ” 

c c But you must know, for it may save you 
many years of unhappiness. I cannot die without 
telling you, and that was one reason why I was so 
anxious to see you. Do you remember the night 
that my little girl died?” 

Inez bowed in affirmative, and he continued, 
“ It was then that I heard from that man for the 
first time after lie went away. I was thinking of 
him and of the just punishment it would be for 
me to lose my darling who was the greatest 
treasure I had on earth. I cursed him in my heart 
and was wondering where he was, hoping that he 
might yet suffer more than I had when you came 
in with his name on your lips? You said that you 
could not come before because Sir Edward Sars- 
dale had been at your home. How I longed to tell 
you all then, and put you on your guard against 
that cold-hearted villain whose only motive for the 
crime was jealousy, for he wished to fill the place 
,of his victim. In my misery I cared not for his 
wrath, but dreaded, for the sake of my dear wife 
and child to let it be known that I was the 
murderer. ” 

“Sir Edward Sarsdale! ” Inez repeated in as- 
tonishment when she heard his name mentioned. 
She scarcely heard the last words, for the shock 


96 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


she received when she heard Sir Edward’s name' 
mentioned was as great as when she had learned 
that she was in the presence of Walter Tracy’s 
murderer . Why had she so distrusted Sir Ed- 
ward she had often asked herself without being 
able to solve the question, but she knew now, and 
hoped that she might never again behold his face. 

The dying man was again speaking, which roused 
her to her senses. u You know, Inez,” he said, 
that for some time previous to my little girl’s 
death I was very neglectful of my religious duties. 
It commenced the night that I committed that 
crime, for I dared not face the priest in the con- 
fessional with that stain on my soul, and I believe 
that -I never would, had it not been for the prom- 
ise I made my child when she was dying. The 
Sunday after her death I approached the sacra- 
ments for the first time in over three years and 
made a resolution then that if I ever learned that 
you were to marry Sir Edward Sarsdale I should 
prevent it by telling you of his crime. I told the 
priest to tell you in case I should die without tell- 
ing you, so you see I have repented my folly and 
have saved you from that man, whatever the cost 
to me might have been. ’ ’ 

“ I have one thing more to ask,” he continued, 
“It is that you will never reveal what I have told 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 97 

you ; not that I wish to hide my crime for my own 
sake, but for the sake of my poor wife who has 
already seen enough sorrow, and whom I never 
wish to know what I have done, and for my child, 
the memory of whose name I do not wish to have 
marred by letting the world know of her father’s 
dark deed. There was no need asking Inez to keep 
the secret, for to her forgiveness meant silence, 
and she would rather suffer anything than ever be- 
tray what had been told her. 

Inez knelt by the bedside with the man’s wife 
while the last sacraments were being administered, 
and in spite of the great injury he had done her, 
she could not look upon his pale face without the 
deepest feelings of sympathy. How haggard and 
careworn that face was. Suffering and remorse 
had indeed left deep lines there which plainly told 
that he had been punished for his crime, while the 
tearful eyes, which rested now and then on her 
face would almost have softened a heart of stone. 

For some hours after the priest and Inez left 
him the man seemed much easier than he had been 
for many days, and his wife began to entertain 
some hopes that he might yet be spared her. 
’Twas only the refreshing effect of the sacraments 
and the freedom of mind which he felt on knowing 
that at last Inez knew his secret and had forgiven 


98 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


him, combined with that supernatural strength 
which often precedes death . Early in the morn- 
ing the change came, and in a few minutes he 
passed away without a struggle. 

It wanted but a few minutes of .twelve when the 
priest and Inez reached Torrence, and the latter 
would have gone home, but she was to sing at 
midnight mass, and she would not disappoint the 
people who had expected to hear her. With this 
new secret in her mind, it seemed as if she would 
never again find voice to sing, and many times 
during the Mass she felt that her voice trem- 
bled and she must break down ; but she stood by 
the organ until it was over and many declared that 
her voice had never sounded as sweet as it did 
that night. 

Three days passed and the morning of the fu- 
neral came. Each stroke of the tolling bell 
seemed to pierce her heart like a sword, and the 
memories of that other funeral which took place 
five years ago, rushed upon her mind with new 
vividness. Although she never once looked from 
her window, she knew when the coffin was carried 
into the church and when it was taken out. Si- 
lently she sat with her back to the window, offer- 
ing now and then a silent prayer for the poor man’s 
soul, until she thought that all was over; then, for 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


99 


the first time she turned toward the cemetery. 
The funeral train, which consisted of only a few 
of the villagers, with one solitary mourner, the 
man’s wife, was just leaving the cemetery. 
Gleaming like a tali white statue among the ever- 
greens stood the Tracy monument, among which 
so many names of honored members of the family 
had been carved, and almost within the shadow 
that same marble shaft lay the one who had ban- 
ished the noble name from the earth. 

The murder was now partly avenged, and the 
hands that had committed that dark deed were 
clasped forever, while the one who had caused it 
was enjoying a gay existence in his London home, 
surrounded by scores of friends, and without a 
shadow of remorse in his hardened heart. 

Side by side the murderer and murdered now 
slept waiting for the judgment day, when their se- 
cret should be made known. As for the three liv- 
ing persons who possessed it, it would never be re- 
vealed unless Sir Edward should repent and make 
his crime known, wnich, in all probability, he 
would never do. For the priest, ’twas a secret of 
the confessional, over which a secret veil of deep 
and everlasting silence is thrown; while for Inez 
the memory of the promises made Walter Tracy 
alone would have caused her to keep silent only 


100 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


for no other reason. 

Happily for Inez Sir Edward did not visit Tor- 
rence for several months, and she was beginning 
to think that he would not trouble her again, 
when one day early the following autumn he ar- 
rived quite unexpectedly to pay Lord Ashleigh a 
few day’s visit and to renew his entreaties to Inez, 
whom he had resolved not to give up too easily. 
Inez met him very coolly, but betrayed no signs 
of emotion. Several times he sought an opportu- 
nity to speak to her alone, but she kept her own 
room nearly all of the time, never seeing him ex- 
cepting when she met him at the table, and a few 
♦times in the parlor with the family. She even ab- 
sented herself from the daily Mass, which she was 
seldom known to miss, because she knew if she 
went he would be there. In her presence he was 
very agreeable, trying to lavish every possible at- 
tention upon her only to be met with almost dis- 
dainful coldness. 

He lengthened the few days visit to over three 
weeks and when the day of his departure came 
Inez refused to see him to bid him good-bye. Her 
father was greatly angered at this but said noth- 
ing to her until the next day when he sent for her 
to come to his room. When she entered she was 
met by a stern, scornful look which she had never 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


101 


before seen on his face and which caused her to 
shrink from him . He motioned her to a chair in 
front of him. 

‘ 4 Inez,” he said in a firm voice, “I would like 
to have you explain to me what you mean by 
treating one of your best and truest friends as you 
have the man who left here yesterday.” 

No answer came and he continued: “ At first 
I overlooked your coolness toward him trusting 
that in time it would pass away but to my grief I 
notice that each time he visits us you are more 
distant than ever. In my love for you my child 
I have hitherto refrained from chiding you for 
your conduct, but seeing that by it you are ruin- 
ing your own happiness as well as that of your 
own parents I can keep silent no longer. Think 
of the great interest Sir Edward has taken m you 
ever since that fatal night when that great misfor- 
tune befell you. It was he who for your sake 
worked most diligently to clear up that mystery 
which, alas, is yet unsolved.” 

How Inez longed to cry out that he had worked 
to hide his own crime, but no, she could not be- 
tray her secret and it must go with her to the 
grave. 

Her father went on : “ Having failed his next 

effort was to recall you from the melancholy life 


102 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


you were leading and he made many noble sacri- 
fices in order to secure your happiness, but you, 
ungrateful girl treated him with disdain for it. 
He has borne with it all offering kindness for in- 
sult and is still willing to overlook it all and make 
you his adored bride if you will but give your 
consent. I know you have refused him several 
times but consider well what you are doing before 
you do so again.” 

U I have considered it well, father,” she an- 
swered, “and cannot marry him or anyone else.” 

“My child,” said her father, appearing not to 
notice her answer, “You know that it has caused 
us all untold grief to see what a sad existence you 
have been leading for nearly six years and it will 
break our hearts to see you continue thus much 
longer. Our greatest hope has been to see you 
the happy wife of some one who is worthy of you 
and I know of no one who would make you a bet- 
ter husband than Sir Edward. He has one of the 
noblest, truest-hearts of any man I ever knew ” — 
Inez shuddered at these words — “and he is one 
who could not fail to make you happy. You 
know too that his wealth is very great and he is a 
decendent of one of England’s noblest families.” 

“Father,” said Inez in a trembling voice “the 
memory of Walter Tracy is too sacred for me ever 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


103 


to allow any one to fill the place that was to have 
been his. I promised him only a few minutes 
before he died that I would never marry and I 
shall keep that promise.” 

“Did he ask you to make such a promise?” 
asked her father. 

“No, father, he did not ask me to make it,” 
she answered, “ I made it of my own free will, 
and when I sa\^ the pleasure it gave him in those 
the last moments of his life, I did not regret it 
nor have I since, and having made it I shall never 
break it. ’ ’ 

“ Foolish girl, ” said her father in atone bor- 
dering on anger, “could Walter Tracy now speak 
to you, I knowdie would far rather see you mar- 
ried to this most worthy of men than see you 
unhappy as you are.” 

“Father,” Inez murmured, “as I have often 
told you before, I can hope for no greater happi- 
ness than what I now enjoy in living a single life 
and doing good where I can, while, on the other 
hand, what you have chosen for me would be a 
life of untold misery.” 

“Then you refuse to obey me ?” said her father 
sternly. 

“I am sorry to disobey you, father,” said Inez, 
“but I must repeat what I have so often said be- 


104 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


fore, I shall never marry Sir Edward or any one 
else. ” 

“Inez ,” said her father after a moment’s hesi- 
tation, as if considering whether or not it was 
best to say what was in his mind, “do you 

remember Count C whom we met in Paris 

two years ago ?” 

Inez bowed in the affirmative and her father 
continued: “There was one thing I did not in- 
tend to tell you but since you are so persistent in 
following your own stubborn will I cannot resist 
telling you of the ruin it has brought upon this 
young man.” 

Inez looked at him half inquiringly, half be- 
seeching him not to finish but he went on, 4 ‘ I 
have learned that after you refused to marry him 
he did not return home as he said he would but 
remained in Paris hoping that he might meet you 
again and that he might win you, but after you had 
left Paris he became so discouraged by the thoughts 
of your heartlessness that he took to drinking 
very heavily to kill his grief. I am informed 
that he fell in with evil associates and sinking 
lower and lower until at last his property being 
nearly all squandered, he returned to the hotel 
where he was staying late one night and was found 
dead in his room the next morning. He had 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


105 


committed suicide by cutting his own throat. 

Now Inez you see what your stubborness has 
done. Will you still persist in it ? If you had 
married the count as your mother and I wished 
you to you would have saved him from such a 
terrible death and been happy with him now.” 

Inez turned deathly pale as she thought of such 
a dreadful fate befalling one whom she remembered 
as one of the noblest men she had ever met — and 
she the cause of it — »but how could it be so when 
he had so manfully given her up ? There must 
be some mistake, some misunderstanding. 

As soon as she found voice to speak she said: 
“Father, who told you that?” 

“ Sir Edward, ” was the reply. “He was in 
Paris at the time and saw the count after he was 
dead. He said that dissipation had so changed 
him since he last saw him just after we left Paris 
that his old friends would hardly have recognized 
him.” 

“And did you hear it from any other source ?” 
asked Inez. 

“No,” said her father, “and how could I, for 
no one else that I have seen since we left Paris 
knew the count and if they did they perhaps did 
not know that he was a friend of ours and conse- 
quently thinking that we were not interested in 


106 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


him would tell us nothing about him.” 

Inez felt relieved for she distrusted Sir Edward 
and felt that there might possibly be no founda- 
tion for his story. 

“Now Inez,” said Lord Ashleigh, 4 ‘do you 
refuse to obey me, or have you after learning what 
grief you have already caused one noble man, think 
better of your rash resolution never to marry and 
consent to become Lady Sarsdale and the mistress 
of the beautiful Sarsdale hall VI 

“My mind is still unchanged, father,” she' 
answered, “and will remain so. If what you 

have told me about Count C is true I am 

very sorry for him and shall continue all my life 
to lament the fate which first brought me in his 
way, but as for marrying Sir Edward I can never 
do it.” 

No longer able to resist his anger, Lord Ash- 
leigh said, “Inez, I will give you your choice 
between two things, either promise me that you 
will marry Sir Edward or I will disown you for- 
ever as my child and heir and you must leave my 
roof. Which will you do ?” 

“Father,” she answered, “you may disown 
me if you wish and I will go for I would far 
rather be a wanderer alone in a strange land and 
beg for my bread than be mistress of his home.” 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 10T 

She arose to leave the room but her father 
called her back and said, “Inez, consider well 
what you are doing and take back your fatal 
choice before it is too late.” 

“Father, I have chosen for the better,” wa& 
her only reply. 

“Do not call me father,” he said in an angry 
voice, 4 4 for you have chosen to be disowned by 
me and you are no longer my child, so go now 
ungrateful child and never let me behold your 
face again.” 

“ Farewell,” she said, the word father which 
she dared not utter again trembling on her lips, 
and then half to herself she added, “if you only 
knew all you would not blame me as you do now,” 
and he heard those words distinctly. 

Inez was gone and for nearly an hour Lord 
Ashleigh sat in his chair like one distracted. His 
only thought was that he had been obliged to dis- 
own and drive from her home his only daughter 
on whom he had centered so many bright hopes 
that he might one day see her a queen of society 
loved and honored by some of the most aristocratic 
people in England and the happy wife of one 
whose wealth and position made him so well 
worthy of her. 

Lady Ashleigh had gone away that morning to 


108 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


spend a few days and he dreaded her return when 
he must tell her what he had done but consoled 
himself by thinking that Inez might think better 
of her rash choice and not go. 

Oh ! could that father have but seen her as in 
passing the door of the great hall which was kept 
closed, she turned the key and softly glided in to 
take one more glance at the blood stain on the 
floor and offer a prayer for — not the victim — but 
the murderer, Sir Edward; could he have seen her 
too when reaching her own room she took from 
her own wardrobe the pale blue silk dress she had 
worn on that fatal night and wept until her tears 
falling on the deep red spots had made them as 
moist as when they flowed from Walter Tracy’s 
death wound. If he had seen this his heart might 
have been softened. 

At last he arose and walking to the window 
looked out. The cemetery was in sight and he 
saw Inez as she slowly approached the Tracy lot 
kneel at Walter’s grave. For a long time she 
remained there shedding a silent farewell tear 
upon the cold clay then plucking a single flower 
from the grave arose but not to leave the cemetery 
as her father expected she would. She knelt for 
only a minute at another grave that had been 
made little less than a year ago and there offered 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


109 


a silent prayer for the living and the dead. With 
another lingering glance at the Tracy monument 
she soon disappeared from sight. A north bound 
train arrived in a few minutes and the few people 
who saw her board it did not dream that they 
would never again see the one who had been so 
dear a friend to them. 


110 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


CHAPTER V. 

oE VEN years went by and nothing had been heard 
^ from Inez since the day her father so angrily 
disowned her and sent her from her home. Many 
times had he sadly regretted his rashness and had 
hoped against hope that she might return home or 
that he could find her . Oh to see her long enough 
to ask her forgiveness for the sorrow he had caused 
her and he would atone for it by making her home 
as happy for her as possible. He blamed himself 
for not having called her back to explain the last 
words he had heard her speak, “ Father, if you 
only knew all you would not blame me.” These 
words had resounded again and again in his ears 
and he could not banish them. If he had only 
asked her the meaning of them perhaps she might 
never have left home, he would often say to him- 
self, but in that hour of anger he had thought of 
nothing but her disobedience. Could that mys- 
terious all be connected in any way with Sir 
Edward, or did she refer to something she knew r 
concerning the murder of Walter Tracy. These; 
two thoughts had often occurred to him separately, 
but never once had his mind combined them, for 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


Ill 


■such a thing would be impossible. All he knew 
was Inez had gone away with some hidden secret 
and he wished to know what it was. 

How lonely the old mansion had been without 
her, and how its inmates missed that sweet face 
which even though it always bore an expression 
of sadness had behind it a bright and cheerful 
smile for all. It seemed if no life or happiness 
remained in her home after she was gone, while 
the poor of the village whom she had so often as- 
sisted missed her hardly less than her own. 

It is a glorious evening in the lovely month of 
May when we meet a party of English tourists in 
Southern Italy. They are four in number, three 
of whom we recognize as Lord and Lady Ashleigh 
and their son, while the other is ' their son’s wife. 
They had been walking in the country and it was 
nearly sunset when they reached a beautiful green 

hill, on whose brow was the convent of St. . 

They ascended the hill, and from a point just west 
of the convent sat down to watch the sunset. 
Below them lie a picturesque green valley with a 
pearly stream running through it and studded 
here and there with wild trees and shrubbery 
peculiar to that sunny climate ; another lower 
elevation rose on the other side of the valley and 
just beyond was the shores of that great sea which 


•112 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


stretches along the entire southern coast of 
Europe. The golden sun was just above the hor- 
rizon and the bright clouds of red and gold, with 
the blue sky above, reflected in the still blue 
waters of the Mediterranean, gave the scene a 
very beautiful aspect. 

1'hey silently admired the grandeurs before 
them as if fearing that the least sound made by 
them would be an almost sacrilegious profanation 
of the atmosphere surrounding them. The 
younger lady was the first to break the silence. 

Half turning toward the convent, she said, 

4 4 What a beautiful spot the nuns have chosen for 
their home. It seems as if all nature speaks the 
praises of the Creator there.” 

44 Yes,” said Lady Ashleigh, 4t it almost seems 
like an enchanted place and how happy the in- 
mates of that convent must be so far away from 
the cares of the busy world with only the wonder- 
ful works of nature to look upon.” Her tone 
told that her mind was wandering. She was 
thinking of Inez, who she always felt had found a 
home in some place like this. 44 It is just what 
is suited to her, she thought, and if I could only 
be sure that she had found rest in such a beautiful 
abode — just then the sweet strains of the 4 O 
Salutaris’ broke upon their ears. Involuntarily 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


113 


the party sank upon their knees and in their hearts 
joined the devotions going on within those blissful 
walls. The voices ceased and all was silent for a 
moment, excepting the faint tinkling of a little 
bell which reminded them that the Maker of 
heaven and earth was raised to give His blessmg 
to the kneeling figures before the altar.” 

In that sublime moment Lady Ashleigh renewed 
with a greater devotion than ever before the 
prayer that she might soon find her daughter and 
that she might still be unchanged from the devout 
and pious girl she had been at home. 

Presently the voice of one nun sweeter and 
louder than the others, yet mingled with a strain 
of sadness, was heard singing the “ Magnificat ” 
alone. It was was one of those sweet angelic 
voices that would almost remind (me they were 
listening to a voice from above, and that voice if 
once heard could never be forgotten. Lady Ash- 
leigh turned deathly pale as she listened, for but 
one person in the world could sing like that. She 
looked at her husband and saw that he too recog- 
nized the voice. It was Inez. 

The next day, which was Sunday, the two ladies 
having obtained permission to attend Mass at the 
convent, set out early in the morning to go to it, 
one with a light heart at the hope that she would 


114 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


soon see her daughter, the other wondering what 
had wrought such a change in her husband’s father 
and mother since the evening before. Although 
she knew the story of Inez, it did not occur to her 
that there was any possibility of finding her, and 
neither Lord or Lady Ashleigh had said anything 
of the hope that was in their minds. 

When Mass was over they stood at the chapel 

<loor as the nuns passed out. Lady Ashleigh 

scanned each face and was beginning to think that 

© © 

she had been deceived in the voice, when Inez, 
now Sister Agnes, passed before her, turning 
her eyes neither to the right or left. The mother’s 
first impulse was to clasp her in her arms and 
claim her as her own long-lost child, but instead 
she went to the parlor and asked to see the Mother 
Superior. The kind sister was very much 
touched by the story she heard from Lady Ash- 
leigh, and when it was finished Inez was sent for. 

The meeting between mother and daughter 
was a very affecting one, each being overjoyed to 
see the other, but still more affecting was the one 
which took place that afternoon when Lord Ash- 
leigh and his son called on her. The father beg- 
ged his daughter’s forgiveness for sending her 
from home and said he would be very happy to 
have her with him again, but told her if she were 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


115 


happy where she was he would be content to leave 
her there, where he knew she would be safe fron* 
all harm. In the joy of finding her, he forgot to ask 
her what she meant by the words that had haunted 
him so long and it was better so, for from her lips 
he would never receive an explanation. His dear 
Inez was well and happy and had told him that 
she had never for a moment felt any hard feelings 
toward him, not even when he sent her from 
home, but forgave him with her whole heart. 
That was all he cared for now and he felt that he 
could go home and spend the remainder of his 
years in peace. 

Close upon the track of our friends followed 
another. It was Sir Edward traveling in dis- 
guise and passing as an American who was in 
Europe for the first time. His blonde hair was 
dyed to a dark brown, and his face which he had 
always kept closely shaved, was covered by a 
heavy dark beard of the same shade as his hair. 

Since Inez departure from home he had only 
paid her father two or three short visits, but he 
had watched very closely for tidings from the ab- 
sent one, resolving that if she were found he 
would marry her or have his revenge. He often 
spent several weeks at a time in the neighborhood 
of her old home, and whenever her parents went 


116 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


away for any length of time he would follow them, 
sometimes in one disguise and sometimes in 
another. By study and practice he had become a 
skilled detective. Sometimes he kept quite a dis- 
tance behind them, sending his valet ahead to 
watch them, but often staid in the same place with 
them, even stooping at the same hotel, and so 
complete was his disguise that they met him sev- 
eral times at the table without recognizing him. 

He saw Lady Ashleigh and her daughter-in-law 
when they left the hotel the morning they attended^ 
Mass at the convent, and sent his valet to follow 
them. He learned from a conversation he had 
overheard on their way home what their mission to 
the convent had been, and also learned that Inez 
was there and her name in religion. Sir Edward 
waited until after her friends had returned to 
England, then went to the convent undisguised, 
and asked to see Sister Agnes, saying that he 
had been sent to her with a message from her 
father. When Inez entered the parlor he stepped 
up to her and offered his hand, but she only re- 
turned a cold glance which told him he was un- 
welcome. 

“Inez,” he said in his old familiar tone, ap- 
pearing not to notice the expression on her face, 
“don’t you recognize me?” 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 117 

“Yes,” she answered coldly, “but what is 
your business here ?” 

“I have come,” he answered, “ to ask you to 
leave this place of confinement and go with me, 
where you will be happy.” She motioned him to 
stop, but he went on. “You know, Inez, that I 
have always loved you, loved you more than any 
one else ever could, ” even Walter Tracy he would 
have said, but he dared not utter his name, “ and 
I love you still, although you have treated me so 
cruelly, and will forgive and forget the past if you 
will but leave this place and come with me.” 

4 ‘ Sir Edward, ” she said, advancing toward the 
door and making a motion to open it,” leave me 
immediately, or I shall be obliged to call the su- 
perior and have you put out. You^know you 
have no business intruding upon me in this way.” 

“ I suppose it is against the rules of this house 
where you are shut away from every enjoyment, 
and buried, as it were, in a tomb for the living; but 
it was only my uninterested love for you that has 
prompted this act which you call intruding upon 
you, and you should not treat me thus. I have 
sought you everywhere during these past seven 
years, and for your sake I have scorned many a 
fair and queenly maiden who would have been glad 
of a place in my heart and home which only you 


118 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


could fill, and now that I have found you, I can- 
not give you up. Will you not break the bars of 
your cage, my pretty bird, and flee with me to 
freedom and happiness 

u I have told you to leave me, ” said Sister 
Agnes, ” and I wish you to go at once, for I seek 
no other happiness than what I enjoy in this bliss- 
ful home, and I shall never leave it. ” She pointed 
to the door, but he did not move. 

44 You shall regret this,” he said in a low an- 
gry tone, at the same time putting his hand in his 
breast pocket and drawing out a stiletto, while 
with the other hand he seized her arm. 4 4 Now 
throw off that dark habit and flee with me 
or die.” 

44 Death rather than leave here, ” she murmured; 
then almost involuntarily the words fell from her 
lips, 44 Oh, my God, let not my blood be on the 
same hands that caused the death of Walter 
Tracy. ” She had hardly intended that he should 
hear this prayer, but he heard it, and one glance 
at her face told him that she knew his secret; but 
this only increased his anger, and she must die or 
she might betray him. 

A cry broke from her lips as he made a motion 
to plunge the blade in her heart. He let go of her 
arm, at the same time letting her fall senseless to 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 119 

the floor, and fled. Her cry brought some of the 
sisters to the room, and they found her lying mo- 
tionless as though she were dead; but she was still 
breathing. She had raised her left arm, which 
was free to ward off the blow, and had received a 
fearful wound, which caused her many weeks of 
suffering and paralysis of the arm, which was 
never of any use to her afterwards. 

One afternoon, five years later, Lord Ashleigh 
was sitting by the window of his room when he 
saw a man enter the cemetery. He was dressed 
as a pilgrim, but there was something familiar 
about him that reminded the lord of some one he 
had seen before, but he could not recall who. 
The man never turned his face toward the man- 
sion, but walked slowly to the Tracy lot. Pros- 
trating himself at the foot of Walter’s grave he 
knelt there for a long time, apparently overcome 
with grief. He arose at last, but instead of leav- 
ing the cemetery, advanced toward a group of 
three graves, at the head of the smallest of these 
was a stone marked “• Bessie, aged 11.” He knelt 
for a while at the grave at the right; then with 
bowed head left the cemetery and walked down the 
street. Lord Ashleigh was amazed at what he 
saw for this stranger had visited the same two 
graves that Inez had twelve years before, and his 


120 A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 

movements were almost the same as her’s had 
been. 

The next day the lord received a letter written 
in the old familiar hand of Sir Edward, from whom 
he had not heard for several years. The letter 
which had been written the previous evening con- 
tained an entire confession of the crime. Nothing 
was omitted in the details from the time that, be- 
coming jealous of Walter Tracy, he had been 
tempted to have him put out of the way until he 
had so boldly intruded upon Inez, and tried to mur- 
der her. He told, too, how, afterwards being 

jealous of Count C , whom he feared Inez 

might marry if she ever met him again, which he 
believed she would, as he contemplated visiting 
Torrence the summer she went away, he had made 
him believe that she was soon to become his own 
bride, while to Lord Ashleigh he told the story 

of his sad death. Count C , he Avrote, 

bearing bravely the disappointment of being re- 
jected by Inez, had returned home A\ r ith a faint 
hope that she might some time change her mind, 
and had never given up to drink, as he had ac- 
cused him of doing. Three years ago he had 
married a beautiful American heiress, and with 
her and one lovely child who bore the name 
of Inez, was now living happily in his grand castle 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 12 J 

on the banks of the Rhine. 

In conclusion he wrote: “ I came to Torrence 
this afternoon with the intention of calling on you 
and telling you what I have written. When I 
reached the cemetery and saw the graves of my 
victims then thought of the sorrow I had caused 
in your family, I had not the courage to meet you 
and could not go farther. I hardly dare ask your 
forgiveness after having done you so great an in- 
jury but I do ask that for the sake of my mother 
who does not suspect her son’s crime and my 
honored brothers and sisters that you will keep 
what I have told you as a secret. In a few days 
I shall bid farewell to all who have ever known 
me and go where I can spend the remainder of 
my life in repentance for my folly and none of 
them shall ever hear from me again.” 

Lord Ashleigh after reading the letter sat like 
one spellbound unable to move or speak. For 
this tyrant and murderer had caused his loving, 
his only daughter many months of suffering by 
participating in his wicked plans against her, and 
then, because he had met with failure, he had 
rashly disowned her and driven her from home^ 
Inez’s parting words came back to him with, new 
vividness now. “Father if you only knew all 
you would not blame me.” He knew all now 


122 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


and how he regretted his unkindness to her. Inez 
had in all probability known Sir Edward’s secret 
before she went away, but in her charity that 
sweet girl had submitted to every torture which 
his presence in her home had caused her and lastly 
given up her home and all that was dear to her 
rather than betray one of her father’s trusted 
friends by betraying her secret. 

There was sorrow in Sarsdale hall in London 
when a few days later the oldest son made it 
known to the family that he was about to leave 
home soon to return no more. From his youth 
he had been very reckless and has caused his 
widowed mother many bitter tears but despite of 
this she loved her oldest child most tenderly and 
was very happy to see him repent his youthful 
folly but did not wish him to leave her in her old 
age. He answered her that he did not feel worthy 
of his place in the family and that he intended 
spending the remainder of his life away from the 
world in some religious order but refused to tell 
where. The next day after signing his property 
over to his brothers and sisters he bade farewell 
to all and left home . The name of Sir Edward 
Sarsdale soon became only as a memory of the 
past to his friends and he might as well have slept 
in the grave for he was never seen or heard from 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 12$ 

again. 

Many years have passed and in a monastery of 
the La Trappists in southern France is an aged 
gray-haired monk. He has been in the order for 
years but who he is or whence he came nobody 
knows. Although his life is most humble, he 
cannot hide the fact from a close observer that he 
once belonged to the higher class of society. He 
is noted for his great piety and the austere spirit 
of penance which he practices, but never is he 
more devout than on Christmas eve when he 
spends the whole night praying for the souls of 
his two victims silently resting under the snows 
of a beautiful cemetery in Southern England. Nor 
does Sir Edward — for it is he — forget to offer an 
occasional prayer for the dear little sister who now 
sweetly sleeps under the blue Italian skies on the 
brow of the hill near the convent. 

Inez’s death had been as beautiful as her life. 
For many weeks she had been lingering almost 
between life and death. Each day was thought 
to be her last but she would tell the sister who 
was her most faithful attendant that her time had 
not yet come as she felt that her * mission was not 
yet accomplished but she hoped it would be soon. 
What that mission was no one knew until one 
evening only a few days after Lord Ashleigh had 


124 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


learned Sir Edward’s, secret a letter came for Sis- 
ter St. Agnes. “ Please read it for me,*” she said 
to the Mother Superior who brought it to her. It 
was from her father and told her that her prayer 
had been answered at last for Sir Edward had re- 
pented and confessed his crime. 

Her eyes filled with tears of gladness for since 
the night of Walter Tracy’s death her one prayer 
had been that she might not die until she learned 
that his murderer had repented and now that the 
gladsome tidings had come she felt that she was 
free. That night she died thanking God for Sir 
Edward’s conversion. 

Lord and Lady Ashleigh have joined their 
daughter and their names stand beside hers on the 
family monument. The mansion is now occupied 
by their son while their only grandchild, Inez, is 
married and occupies the old Tracy homestead 
near Torrence. 

In the Tracy mansion in London whose rooms 
had on so many brilliant occasions in years gone 
by been filled with noblemen and ladies of the first 
families of England, may be seen throngs of 
orphan children who in this peaceful abode are 
cared for as tenderly by the nuns as if they were 
in the homes of their own parents. The grand 
ball room no more resounds with brilliant music 


A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


125 


keeping time with the dancer’s step, only a sweet 
toned organ stands where the piano and other 
musical ' instruments were while in the other end 
of the hall is a beautiful little altar where the Holy 
Sacrifice of the Mass is celebrated each morning. 
Inez had given this pleasant home to the orphans 
and many a homeless waif had been made happy 
within its walls. 

THE END 
OF 

A HEROINE OF CHARITY. 


Farmer Carson’s Sons. 


CHAPTER L 

rT was Thanksgiving eve and the Carson family 
**■ were all together for the first time in five 
years, and how happy they were to-night ! All, 
I said, yes, all excepting one. This was their 
oldest child, a son who had been kidnapped nine- 
teen years ago last summer, when he was a little 
over six years old. 

The family at the time were living in a little town 
in Vermont and" had three children, two sons and 
a daughter. A traveling agent who had been can- 
vassing the surrounding country for several weeks 
was boarding at their home. He was greatly at- 
tached to the children and scarcely a day passed 
that he did not bring them something on his 
return from his rounds. He would often take 
little Eddie, the oldest one, who was his favorite, 
out for a ride or a stroll in the country. The 
parents always trusted the children with him, 
thinking he would never let any harm befall them. 
One afternoon he took Eddie out for a walk, say- 


farmer carson’s sons. 


127 


mg that he would return with him before supper 
time. Mrs. Carson watched them as they went 
down the street, and when they were out of sight 
she returned to her work. 

The hours passed and supper time came, but the 
man had not returned with her boy. They waited 
for them about half an hour, and as they did not 
come the family sat down to supper, expecting to 
see them come in any minute. As it began to 
grow dark, and still they did not return, the 
parents became alarmed and a search was com- 
menced for them. Someone had last seen them 
on the edge of a dense forest near the village, and 
all of the men in the village turned out to join in 
searching the woods, . but returned without the 
missing ones. The next heard of them was that 
they had been seen boarding a west-bound train in 
a village about ten miles distant, just after mid- 
night, on the night of their disappearance. This 
was the last tidings that the parents ever had of 
their boy. About a year later they moved to 
Ohio, where they were now living on a farm. 

The heart-broken parents never could quite give 
up their boy, and in all these years there had 
never been a Thanksgiving or a Christmas that 
a plate and a vacant chair had not been set at the 
table for the boy who, Mr. Carson always said 


128 


farmer carson’s sons. 


would return some day to spend some of those 
days with them. “I hope our little Eddie will 
oome home soon,” his wife would say as she sat 
the plate for him, but in her heart she felt that he 
was dead. 

Clara, the oldest girl, who was twenty -four, had 
been married five years ago this Thanksgiving and 
immediately gone west with her husband. The 
two boys, next younger, had been away from 
h®me two years, one in Buffalo, the other in New 
York. Five more children, three girls and two 
boys, the youngest of whom was nine years old, 
were at home. None of the absent ones had been 
home before since they went away, but they were 
all here now to celebrate the fifth anniversary of 
Clara’s marriage. Clara, her husband and two 
children had come that morning, and Charlie and 
Frank had just arrived on the afternoon train. 

Supper was announced and the family gathered 
at the table, which was large enough for them all, 
not forgetting the vacant chair which was put 
there in honor of this being the first meal the 
family ate together. All were seated and the 
father asked the usual blessing on all of the 
family, especially the lost boy, whom he besought 
God to make a good man and bring back to his 
parents. The meal was spent in talking over old 


farmer carson’s sons. 129 

times when the family were .all at home, then the 
conversation drifted upon the absent one. 

u Do you know,” said Mr. Carson, “ it almost 
seems as if our Eddie were near us now, and I 
cannot give up the thought that he will come home 
to us some time.” 

His wife looked at him but did not answer him 
as she had often done, by telling that what he said 
was only his imagination, for she too had a strange 
feeling in regard to the lost boy, but would not 
mention it. ‘ ‘ I suppose it is because the family 
are all here to-night,” she thought, “but Eddie 
will never return.” 

When supper was over, all but two of the girls 
who were to “do up the supper work ’’went to the 
large old-fashioned parlor and gathered around 
the big fire-place as the family had so often done 
when they were all at home. Mr. Carson, with 
his pipe in his mouth and his little grandson on his 
knee, was a perfect picture of contentment, while 
his wife whose fingers were never idle and who 
was now knitting a pair of mittens for that same 
little grandson, looked equally happy. For a few 
minutes she worked most diligently, for she was 
on the thumb of the second mitten, and when it was 
finished she laid down her needles, saying, “Come 
here, Eddie, and let me see how these fit.” 


130 


farmer carson’s sons. 


The boy bounded from his grandfather’s knee 
and going over to her held out two little chubby 
hands to have them tried on. A tear trickled 
down her cheeks, for she thought of that other 
Eddie for whom she used to knit mittens and to 
whom this child bore a very strong resemblance. 

‘‘Those are for your birthday, darling,’’ she 
said, kissing him, ‘ and turning to her husband, 
said, “ Our little Eddie will be four years old to- 
morrow and as I look at him I almost imagine 
•that we have our own boy back, he has grown so 
much like him.” 

Her husband looked at the child, then at his 
wife, and said, “I know we will have our own 
Eddie back some time. ” 

Just then a rap came to the door and Mrs. Car- 
son opened it to admit their next door neighbor, 
Mr. Gibson, and his son Tommie, a boy of about 
fifteen, who had come over to spend the evening. 

“I am glad you have come,” said Mr. Carson, 
u for you see we are all at home this evening and 
we like nothing better than having some of our 
neighbors here to enjoy with us the pleasure of 
our family reunion.” Turning to his daughter, 
Grace, a girl of about fourteen, he said : “ Won’t 
you play and sing something for us, Grace 

Grace took her place at the organ and after 


farmer carson’s sons. 


131 


lightly fingering the keys for a minute, com- 
menced singing a sweet but simple country ballad 
in a clear, rich voice, which plainly told that only 
culture was needed to make her a very beautiful 
singer. Another song was called for and her 
mother suggested that she should sing her favorite 
Sunday School hymn, which she did, and then 
followed a duet by her brother and herself. 

Mr. Gibson listened with interest and after she 
had left the organ he remarked : u That girl has a 
wonderfully fine voice and I could not help think- 
ing how nice it would be for her to sing in the 
choir.” 

u Yes,” said Mrs. Carson with an air of pride, 
“ Grace certainly has a very sweet voice and our 
minister has spoken of having her sing in the 
choir, but thinks it is better for her to wait a year 
or two until her voice gets stronger. She is going 
to singing school this winter to practice and I 
think I’ll have her take lessons from a teacher 
who is to be in town some time this winter. It 
will help her so much. 

“ Speaking of the choir,” said Mr. Carson, ad- 
dressing his neighbor, ‘ 4 reminds me that I heard 
you had a new minister at your church or were to 
have one.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Gibson, who unlike the Car- 


132 


farmer carson’s sons. 


sons was a Catholic, “ our new priest has been 
here about three weeks and I think we shall like 
him very much.” 

“What kind of a looking man is he?” asked 
Mr. Carson, who was interested in any stranger of 
note who came to the neighboring village. 

“ He is quite young,” answered Mr. Gibson, 
< • and although apparently rather delicate, I think 
he is as fine a looking man as I ever saw.” 

‘ 4 1 met a very handsome young stranger this 
morning when I was going to the train to meet 
Clara and there was something so kind of familiar 
looking about him t^iat I could not help being par- 
ticularly struck by his appearance. I watched 
him and saw him go into the Catholic parsonage, 
so I think he must have been vour new minis- 
ter. ” 

“Quite likely,” said the other, then added, 
“But you should hear him preach ; he preaches 
such beautiful sermons that it would do anyone 
good to hear him.” 

Mrs. Carson glanced at Clara and met her eyes 
in a look which told it was not altogether pleasant to 
have a Komanist thus interfering in her husband’s 
religion in this way and trying to bring him 
to his church. “Its just like them,” she 
thought, for as much as she respected the Gibson 


farmer carson’s sons. 


133 


family as neighbors, she could not banish from 
her mind the thought that they were Papists and 
she must always be on her guard lest they should 
try to ensnare some of her family into Romanism. 
u It won’t do him any good,” she thought, just 
as she heard her husband answer, “ 1 would like to 
hear him preach, but I could not understand 
him.” 

“ Could not understand him, why not?” asked 
Mr. Gibson. 

“Because,” said Mr. Carson, “I have always 
heard that the Catholic ministers preach in a 
strange language that only members of their own 
church can understand.” 

Mr. Gibson could hardly repress a smile at 
this absurd remark, but how could he, who had 
never been in a Catholic church and only knew 
what he had been told by malicious persons as 
ignorant of Catholicity as himself, be blamed for 
his absurd ideas ? “ The Latin language is used for 
the divine ceremonies in every Catholic church 
in the world,” he said, “ but the people pray in 
their own language, whatever it may be, different 
portions of Holy Scriptures selected for each Sun- 
day and feast day are read in their own language 
and a sermon preached on some text from one of 
these, so you see you oan understand the sermon. ” 


134 


farmer carson’s sons. 


As Mr. Carson was quite anxious to know 
whether the gentleman he had met that morning 
was the new priest, and also wanted to hear him 
preach, he told his friend that he would go to 
church with h im the next Sunday. 

The frown deepened on Mrs. Carson’s face at 
this announcement, for her husband was very care- 
less about attending his own church, and very 
often she had tried in vain to persuade him to go 
with her. He was one of those kind whose motto 
is u One church is as good as another, and a man 
can be just as good if he attends no church at all.” 
He lived up to the last part of this maxim, being 
an active member of no church, but simply going 
with his family occasionally to please them. 

With his wife it was different. She had joined 
the church when quite young, and had always 
been a very strict member. She was trying to 
bring up her children as she herself had been 
brought up, and was very much grieved to 
see her husband setting such an example of care- 
lessness before them. One more dreg was added 
to her cup of bitterness to-night, but she was de- 
termined to persuade him to go to his own church 
the next Sunday. It was to no avail, for his mind 
was set on going with Mr. Gibson, and he would 
go in spite of all she said or did to prevent it. 


farmer carson’s sons. 


135 


It was quite late when Mr. Gibson and his 
son went home, and soon after they were gone the 
Carson children bid their parents good-night and 
went to their own rooms, but Charlie; the oldest son, 
who had been in Buffalo, lingered behind the 
others. He had something he wished to tell his 
parents before returning to the city next morning, 
but had been almost afraid to mention it until he 
saw how interested his father was in the new 
priest. “Now is my time,” he thought; “Father 
I think, will not object; but mother, w T hat will 
she say ?” He, like his father, had failed to no- 
tice the frown on his mother’s face, or even then 
he would not have dared to tell what he did. 

He had been keeping company with a Catholic 
girl in Buffalo for some time, and expected to be 
married just after the holidays. He did not tell 
them that the girl wished him to change his re- 
ligion for her, and he had thought quite se- 
riously of doing so, but waited to see what they 
thought of his coming marriage before mentioning 
that. 

When Charlie mentioned the matter to them, 
Mr. Carson said nothing, for the thought of his 
son marrying a Catholic caused him to be too 
much bewildered to speak, especially when he 
thought how his wife would take it. 


136 


farmer carson’s sews. 


44 1 know you would like her mother,” 
said Charlie, 4 4 as he saw that his mother looked 
displeased, for she is one of the kindest, truest 
girls I ever saw. ” 

44 1 might like her,” said his mother, 4 4 but oh, 
my son, how can you think of marrying her? ” 
There was a tone of grief in her voice as she 
spoke . 

4 4 Why not, mother % ” he asked. ♦ 

44 Charlie,” she answered, 44 it grieves me very 
much to know that a child of mine could think of 
marrying a Catholic. ” 

She paused for a moment, and as her son made 
no reply, but appeared to heed not her words, 
went on. 44 If you marry that girl you will not 
only cause a deep wound in your mother’s heart, 
but in your own also. You will soon regret your 
folly, for you can never live in happiness with 
one whose religion differs so much from your 
own.” 

44 Perhaps he might persuade her to become a 
Protestant with him, ” suggested Mr. Carson, 
who thought that his wife ought not to interfere 
too much with his son’s rights after he had be- 
come of age. 

44 1 am certain she will never do that,” said 
Charlie. 


farmer carson’s sons. 


1ST 


“You had better give her up then,” said his 
mother, < 6 for I know your marriage with her will 
only bring unhappiness to you both.” 

He saw plainly that his mother would not con- 
sent to his marriage with a Catholic, and not 
wishing to have any further argument with her, 
bade her good night, telling her that he would 
think about what she had said. His father 
lingered for a moment in the room and whispered, 
“don’t worry, Charlie, about what your mother 
said, for it will be all right.” 

Once in his own room, Charles Carson locked 
the door and sitting down drew from his pocket 
a picture of a sweet faced girl of about eighteen 
and a little boy perhaps ten years younger, who 
bore a strong resemblance to her. The girl 
was dressed in mourning and her only jewel was a 
small gold pin with a sodality medal of the Im- 
maculate Conception attached to it, which showed 
that the wearer was a Child of Mary. This was 
Theresa Kinney, the girl whom he intended to 
make his wife and the boy her only brother. For 
some time he sat gazing at the fair young face, 
thinking of the original and of how his mother 
wished him to give her up because of her religion . 
At last as he replaced the picture in his pocket, 
he said half aloud: “No, Theresa, I will never 


138 


farmer carson’s sons. 


.give you up for that or ask you to change your 
ireligion for me when I know you prize it so much. 

I would sooner become a Catholic myself than do 
so dishonorable a thing. He did not realize what 
becoming a Catholic meant, nor did he know yet 
how many months of preparation and diligent 
study were before him before he could become a 
member of that true Church which admits no one 
blind-folded within its doors, for one not brought 
;up in the Catholic Church must thoroughly under- 
stand its doctrines before being admitted to it. 
Having learned them, there is no room for any 
doubt as to the infallible truth of each and every 
one of the doctrines it teaches, but how few out- 
side the fold care to study them for this reason. 
They prefer rather to remain in darkness and 
ignorance, that they may still call themselves mem- 
bers of some one of the many so-called churches 
organized by men who have for one reason or 
another fallen from the true faith and wished to 
discard doctrines taught by Jesus Christ himself 
which they thought too severe for them. 

Charlie did not mention Theresa’s name to his 
mother again and she said nothing of her until he 
was leaving home the next evening, when she whis- 
pered to him that she hoped he would not forget 
her advice, and it would break her heart to see one 


farmer carson’s sons. 


139 * 


of her children marry a Catholic. “Please don’t 
worry about me, mother,” was the only answer 
he gave and from his tone she could not tell 
whether or not her words had any effect on him, 
but she believed they would save him from a life- 
of unhappiness with one far inferior to him. 

Thanksgiving passed very pleasanlly, as it al- 
ways did at the Carson farm house, and as usual 
the absent boy was not forgotten. Sunday morn- 
ing had come, and Mr. Carson was one of the first 
in the house to be up and doing his morning’s 
work in the barn so as to be ready when Mr. 
Gibson called for him to go to church, His wife 
watched him but said nothing to him until he put 
on his overcoat and hat and was about to leave 
home, when she called him back and told him to 
wait a minute, as the girls were not quite ready. 

“ I am not going with you to-day,” he answered, 
“so there is no need of waiting, for the sleigh is at 
the door waiting for you and I can be of no more 
service to you now.” 

“Not going with us,” said Mrs. Carson, “you 
don’t intend to walk, I hope, when there is plenty 
of room in the sleigh ?” 

“Oh, no,” he answered, “Mr. Gibson is wait- 
ing for me in front of the house now,” and before* 
she could speak he was gone. 


140 


farmer carson’s sons. 


‘ 4 It was of no use trying to keep him when his 
mind was set on going,” she said to her daughter 
Clara, who entered the room just as the deor 
closed after her father. 

“ Never mind, mother,” said Clara, “I hope he 
will see enough of their queer movements and 
hear enough of their foreign language, which they 
are afraid somebody will understand, to disgust 
him so he won’t go again.” 

“Mr. Gibson says* they preach in English,” 
said Mrs. Carson. 

“Well, maybe they do here,” her daughter 
answered, “ but they don’t where I live, for I went 
to the Catholic church there one Sunday afternoon 
expecting to hear a sermon, but they only sang in 
their foreign language and I could not understand 
a word of it. I saw no sense to what they did 
and will never go again. I do not think father 
will either, after he sees it once.” 

“ Let us hope not,” said her mother. 

Could they have seen him as he gazed around 
the church, when he entered it, with a look of 
curiosity mingled with a little admiration they 
might have thought different. How strange every 
thing looked to him, but although he had spent 
his whole life working on the farm, he admired 
beautiful things in art and could not help contrast- 


farmer carson’s sons. 141 

ing the handsome altar, the statues and pictures 
with the bare walls of his own church. < l I do 
not see how anyone can help feeling better when 
they are in church to have such things as those 
to look at,” he thought. Just then the sound of 
the organ was heard and a half a dozen scarlet 
robed boys appeared on the altar followed by a 
tall and handsome young priest. Mr. Carson 
recognized him at a glance as the gentleman he 
had met a few days before. He was somewhat 
surprised to find that instead of wearing the plain 
black suit he had always seen in the pulpit or 
even the simple robe he had expected to see, he 
was robed in violet vestments. u How strange,” 
he thought. 

Ic was the first Sunday of Advent and the priest, 
whose name was Father Bristol, after reading the 
epistle and Gospel preached a very touching and 
eloquent sermon taking his text from the Gospel 
of the day which describes what shall preceed 
the end of the world. He also reminded the 
people of the holy season of penance upon which 
they were entering to-day as a preparation for the 
great and joyous feast of Christmas . The sermon 
was short, but each word seemed to come from the 
heart of the preacher and it was not without an 
effect upon at least one person. The heart of the 


142 


farmer carson’s sons. 


rough farmer who never cared for any religion 
was touched more than it had ever been before 
and he almost admired the queer movements and 
singing in a foreign language which his daughter 
had said would disgust him. He told Mr. Gibson 
that he had never heard a better sermon and that 
the Catholic Church did not seem as bad as he had 
so often heard it was. 

“We are very sadly misrepresented by our 
enemies,” said Mr. Gibson, “but if they would 
only listen to the truth they would know that we 
are right.” 

On reaching home Mr. Carson found that his 
family had just returned from their own church. 
He told them that he had never heard a better 
sermon and that he intended to go again. He 
even asked his wife to go with him as he knew 
that she would enjoy the preaching. Her answer 
was that she was satisfied with her own church 
and did not care to go where they worshiped ima- 
ges, prayed to Mary and the saints instead of God 
and were guilty of numberless other superstitions 
which outsiders knew nothing about. Clara said 
nothing although she was very much disappointed 
to think that her father, whom she thought had a 
great deal of common sense, should be so taken up 
with a Roman priest just because he used such 


143 


farmer carson’s sons. 

fine language. 

Mr. Carson did not care for what any of his 
family said, and Christmas morning found him at 
Mass for the second time with the Gibson family. 
After this he often went alone, and each time he 
was more interested in what he saw and heard, al- 
though there were so many things that he could not 
understand. ‘ ‘If I only knew what all these strange 
words and signs meant, ” he would often say to 
himself; but he would not even ask his most inti- 
mate Catholic friend to explain them, and never 
thought of seeking information from any books. 
He felt that there was some sacred mysteries con- 
nected with them, for the people seemed so devout 
while in church. If he ever joined any church it 
would be the Catholic, and then he would learn 
what everything he had ever seen meant; but un- 
til then he would not trouble himself about them. 
That time would probably never be, for he still 
felt a man who professed no religion, and tried to 
do right could be as good as any devout church 
member. 

During this time ever watchful eyes were upon 
him. The Gibson family noticed how attentive he 
was while in church, and how, after a while, he no 
longer kept his seat through the Mass, but stood 
and even knelt when the others did. They had 


144 farmer carson’s sons. 

some hopes that he might some day be one of their 
number. His own family, who only saw his fre- 
quent attendance at a church where they said he 
had no right to go, thought the same, and all of 
them, especially his wife, who had heard and 
read so many of the false and groundless stories 
which unhappily have been circulated about the 
holy Catholic religion, was very much grieved to 
see him leaving his own church to go there. She 
rather indignantly asked him when he returned 
from Mass one Sunday if he intended to be a Cath- 
olic as well as his foolish son, who was still keep- 
ing company with that Catholic girl in Buffalo. 
He answered her truthfully when he told her that 
he had not thought of this, as he had never 
joined any church and never intended to. 

4 4 Then why do you go there so often? ” she 
asked. 

4 4 Because I like to hear Father Bristol preach, ’ ’ 
was the reply, and as long as I do not interfere 
with you or the children, you should not find any 
fault with me. ’ ’ 

4 4 But you do interfere with the children, ” said 
his wife. 

4 4 How so? ’ ’ he asked, 4 4 1 was not aware 
of it.” 

4 4 By giving them bad example,” answered 


farmer carson’s sons. 145 

Mrs. Carson. “ If they see their father so care- 
less they will think they can do as he does. ’ ’ 

“ Don’t worry about them, ” said her husband, 
4 4 for they have a good mother who will teach 
them to do right, and you may be sure that they 
will follow her example rather than mine. There 
was no sarcasm in his voice as he said this, but a 
firmness which told he would have his own way 
about going to the Catholic church, and she, see- 
ing that her arguments were of no avail, said no 
more, but left him to follow his own inclinations. 
He continued as before, going sometimes to the 
Catholic church and sometimes with his own 
family. 


146 


FARMER CARSON’S SONS. 


CHAPTER II. 

One afternoon nearly two years later, Mr. Car- 
son had been to town, and on his way home 
stopped at Mr. Gibson’s to enquire for his oldest 
son, Willie, who had been very ill for some time, 
and whom the physicians had given up. He did not 
notice the carriage that drove up behind him until 
entering the house he saw Father Bristol coming 
up the walk. It was the first time he had met the 
priest, and as Mrs. Gibson introduced him, Mr. 
Carson noticed that at the mention of his own 
name he gave a little start as of surprise, repeated 
the name to make sure that he understood it right, 
and fixed his eyes on his face for a moment as if 
trying to recall a likeness to some one he had 
seen before. But his services were needjed in the 
sick room, so he had no time to think of anything 
else now, and when he came out Mr. Carson was 
gone. 

Mrs. Carson had expected a letter from Clara, 
and was impatiently awaiting her husband’s return 
from town. When he came in he handed her the 
letter, which told her that their daughter was com- 
ing home to spend Thanksgiving, and there was 


farmer carson’s sons. 147 

another letter from Charlie saying that he would 
be there. 

“ I am so glad they are both coming, ” said 
Mrs. Carson, “for it seems so much like old times 
to have them here. By the way, I saw you com- 
ing out of Mr. Gibson’s, and almost forgot to ask 
how Willie is to-day.” 

“He is very low, ” was the reply, “ and can 
haully live through the night. ” 

“Poor Mrs. Gibson,” said his wife, “I feel 
so sorry for her, for she always thought so much 
of that boy, and it will be too bad if she loses 
him. ” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Carson, “ she seemed to feel 
very badly.” 

I saw a carriage at the gate,” said Mrs. Car- 
son. “ Is the doctor there now ? ” 

“No,” answered her husband, “It is Father 
Bristol, their priest.” 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Carson significantly. 

Her husband did not notice this, but went on, 
“ you know, Martha, I always said that “ Father 
Bristol looked like some one I knew. This is the 
first time I have ever been near enough to him to 
tell who it was, but it is strange that I could not 
see it before, for he resembles our son Charlie 
very closely, and he has Charlie’s voice, too.” 


148 


farmer carson’s sons. 


“ Oh pshaw,” said his wife, “ I did not think 
you had lost your mind enough to imagine that 
priest looked like your favorite son,” and 
Mrs. Carson went into the other room, leaving 
him in the kitchen to think over the mistake he 
had made by telling her this. 

Half an hour later Mr. Carson heard the front 
door open and his wife returned, telling him there 
was some one in the parlor to see him. He saw 
at once by the tone of her voice that she was dis- 
pleased, and without saying a word to her he went 
to see who the guest was. 

“ What is it, mother ? ” asked Grace, who was 
in the room 

“The Catholic priest has come to see your 
father,” was the reply. “ He had just been call- 
ing on Willie Gibson, and met your father there, 
and I suppose he thought he was a Catholic, after 
seeing him at his church so often.” 

“It is too bad,” said Grace, “ Father shouldn’t 
have gone there so much, but of course he will tell 
him that he is not a Catholic.” 

“I hope so,” said Mrs. Carson, “but your 
father seems to think a great deal of him and you 
don’t know what may come of it yet. And, oh ! 
Grace, what if he should persuade him to join the 
Catholic Church ?” 


farmer carson’s sons. 


149 


“ I do not think he or anyone else could ever 
do that, mother,” said Grace, “ so do not let us 
worry about it.” 

“ 1 hope not,” said Mrs. Carson, and something 
said in the parlor caused her to listen for a 
moment and turn pale, while her daughter looked 
at her in astonishment. 

Leaving the room of the invalid, Willie Gibson, 
after he had done all he could for him, Father 
Bristol had sought his father and asked him who 
the gentleman was whom he had met when he 
came in. 

“Mr. Carson,” said Mr. Gibson, “he is a 
neighbor of ours.” 

“Carson,” repeated the priest, to make sure 
that he understood the name correctly.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Gibson. 

“Did he always live here?” the priest asked. 

“ He lived where he does now when we came 
here,” said Mr Gibson, “and that was about fif- 
teen years ago . 1 think he had been here about 

four or five years then.” 

“ Do you know where he lived before he came 
here?” was the next question. 

“In the northern part of Vermont, some- 
where,” answered Mr. Gibson, “ but I have for- 
gotten the name of the place. It was quite a 


150 


FARMER CARSON *S SONS. 


small village.” 

Father Bristol paused for a moment. He felt 
certain now that one of the most earnest prayers 
of his life was to be answered. 44 Do you know,’ ’ 
he asked, 4 4 whether Mr. Carson ever lost a son ?” 

4 4 Yes,” Mr. Gibson answered, 44 I have often 
heard him speak of a boy who was kidnapped just 
before they moved here. He was their oldest 
child and they have never gotten over his loss .” 1 

44 Then they never found the child ?” asked the 
other. 

4 -No,” was the reply, 44 his parents could find 
no trace of him, although they searched for him 
everywhere. Mrs. Carson thinks he must be 
dead, but his father always said he was sure of 
finding him sometime, and is still unwilling to give 
him up.” 

4 4 Do you know how old the boy was?” asked 
the priest. 

44 About six years, I think,” answered Mr. Gib- 
son. 

44 And his name ?” asked the other. 

4 4 Edward, ” was the reply, 44 that is his father’s 
Dame, too. ” 

44 Where did you say Mr. Carson lives?” the 
priest asked. 

4 4 In the next house west of here,” was the 


farmer carson’s sons. 


151 


the answer. 

“ I wonder if Father Bristol knows where Ed. 
Carson’s lost son is.” Mr. Gibson thought, as the 
priest left the house and he watched him until he 
saw him enter Mr. Carson’s yard, then another 
thought occurred to him. He as well as his neigh- 
bor had noticed the striking resemblance between 
the priest and Charles Carson, and could it be 
possible that he was the lost son who had been 
mourned as dead by his mother. 

Mr. Gibson was right, for the priest who had 
just left him was no other than Eddie Carson, and 
as he walked up the broad path leading to his own 
father’s house he felt like a wanderer returning 
home after many years of absence. i ‘ Could he 
prove his identity to his parents after being gone so 
many years, and how would they who were Protest- 
ants greet him as he was now? He bad indeed 
found them after a long search, but now even as 
he stood at their door he was half inclined to turn 
back. He had often noticed his father at church 
and, although knowing that he was not a Catholic, 
he felt that he would receive a warm welcome 
from him, but his mother, how would it be w T ith 
her. As she opened the door, although she greeted 
him with that hospitable welcome which she al- 
ways had for everyone who came to the farm 


152 


FARMER CARSON S SONS. 


house, his keen eye could not help detecting a 
slight frown behind her courteous smile, and when 
he asked for Mr. Carson she felt half inclined to 
tell him that her husband was not at liberty to see 
him but she would not be guilty of such an act of 
impoliteness. 

Mr. Carson, as might be expected, felt it an 
honor to receive a call from so distinguished a 
guest, and he told the priest that, although he 
was not a member of his church, he was very glad 
to see him. 

Father Bristol seemed puzzled at first as to how 
to introduce the object of his visit, until, glaucing 
around the parlor, he saw hanging on the wall a life- 
size picture of himself enlarged from one that had 
been taken only a few weeks before he had been 
stolen from his parents. He remembered well 
the day. It was on his sixth birthday, and his 
mother having dressed him up in a new suit of 
clothes, the same man who had stolen him took 
him to the photograph gallery to have his picture 
taken, and one of the original tin-types he still had 
in his possession, so there was no mistake about 
the identity of it. 

With his eyes still fixed upon the portrait, he 
said, f 6 Mr. Carson, I have come to bring you 
tidings of that boy whose picture hangs on the 


farmer carson’s sons. 


153 - 


wall. ” 

Mr. Carson looked at the picture, then at him 
in amazement and said in a voice that in its emo- 
tions of joy sounded almost unnatural, “ Do you 
know who that child isi” 

u Yes,” anwered the priest, “it is your oldest 
son who was stolen from his parents in the little 

village of M , in Vermont, several years ago 

when he was a small child.” 

Mr. Carson was surprised beyond expression to 
learn that this young stranger, who had never 
been in his house and whom he thought knew 
nothing of his family, should recognize his son’s 
picture and he did not notice his wife as at that 
moment she entered the room. The parlor door 
being ajar, she had heard what was said distinctly 
and came in to ask an explanation. If the priest 
only knew where her son was and could restore 
him to her, she would forgive her husband even 
for the bad example he had set before the children 
by going to the Catholic church, and be glad that 
he had made the priest’s acquaintance. ‘ ‘But what if 
my boy is a Catholic,” she thought, “ I hope God 
has saved him from falling into such error, for 
how could he permit my dear lamb to go 
astray when I have prayed for him so much % 
Hardly a night has passed during these last twenty 


154 


farmer carson’s sons. 

years that I have not offered up a prayer for the 
preservation of my dear lost boy. ’ ’ 

She was about to speak to the priest when her 
husband said, ‘ ‘ Tell me what tidings you have of 
my boy, is he living, and if so where is he now ? 
I would willingly give all I possess to find my 
child.” 

“ He is living and well,” answered Father Bris- 
tol, “ and before you now ; I am Edward Carson, 
your long lost son.” 

“You!” exclaimed Mr. Carson, advancing to- 
ward him and looking in his face, while he grasped 
his hand firmly, 4 1 1 am so glad and will be proud 
to call you my son. ” 

“And, you,” said his wife, breaking into tears, 
“Oh, can it be possible that you are my son? 
This is more than I can bear, I would rather see 
you dead than — .” In a moment of passionate 
grief she had given full vent to her feelings but she 
already regretted having inflicted pain upon the one 
who claimed to be her son and she checked her- 
self before saying any more. “I shouldn’t have 
spoken so hastily,” she thought, “for it is prob- 
ably not his fault, for I suppose he was brought up 
that way. ” Grasping his hand as affectionately as 
her husband had done she said in a gentle pleading 
tone: “I hope you will forgive me if my hasty 


farmer carson’s sons. 


165 


remark has grieved you, but this was so sudden, 
so unexpected and you know we are all — . ” 
She paused again, not that she feared to speak 
the word Protestant, but it occurred to her that 
her son, Charlie, was still keeping company with 
a Catholic girl and what if he, too, had gone over 
to that religion ? As she looked at the priest she 
saw plainly that strong resemblance to Charlie 
of which her husband had spoken, and she said: 
“If you are my son, you are indeed a thousand 
times welcome.” 

Grace, who had followed her mother into the 
room, was so bewildered by what she heard that 
she was almost unable to speak when her father 
presented her to the stranger as his sister. She 
stammered out a word of welcome and tried to ap- 
pear glad to see her new found brother, but 
in her sympathy for her mother, whom she knew 
had spoken the truth when she so hastily said she 
would rather see him dead, she felt that her wel- 
come had been very cold, and wished that she had 
not been in the parlor. 

As soon as the excitement of the greeting was 
over, the wanderer was asked to tell where he had 
been during all those years. 

He said that he remembered his old home in 
Vermont quite well, also his parents, sister and 


156 farmer carbon’s sons. 

brother who were both younger than himself. 
The strange man who had taken him from home 
seemed more like a member of the family. The 
man had taken him to the forest, which was then 
very dense, and they had gone a long distance 
when he began to grow tired and asked to be taken 
home. The answer he received was that they 
were near the edge of the woods and would soon 
be home. It was nearly dark when they emerged 
from the forest and found themselves in a large 
grain field. Here the man hid him and left him 
lor a few minutes, telling that he would whip him 
if he made any noise or stirred while he was gone. 
The boy being too terrified to offer any resistance, 
and almost too tired to stand, sat perfectly still 
on the ground watching the man as he went out 
on the road to the nearest farm house to beg some 
bread for his supper. He begged to be taken home 
to his mother, as he was sleepy and wanted to go 
to bed, but the man only told him to keep still 
and he would take him home. Instead of this, he 
traveled on through the fields until dark, when he 
went out on the road. Being too exhausted to 
walk any farther, the man carried him and he 
soon fell asleep in his arms. When he awoke it 
was morning, and he found himself on a train 
which did not leave until late that night, when 


farmer carson’s sons. 157 

they stopped in some city and went to a hotel for 
a few days. 

While there the man told him that he was his 
father, and told him that he must call him father. 
The boy obeyed through fear of punishment, and 
although he never forgot his own parents, he did 
not dare to mention their names to anyone or tell 
that he had been stolen from his home. Leaving the 
city, the name of which Eddie never learned, they 
took another long journey on the railroad, which 
brought them to a small city in Virginia. Here 
they took up lodgings in a boarding house kept by 
a German family and the man told the family that 
he was his own child and the only relative he had 
in the world. Father Bristol did not tell of the 
many severe punishments he had received from 
the man who claimed to be his father, or of the 
many nights he had cried himself to sleep, think- 
ing of his own parents whose names he dared not 
mention. 

Little over a year later the man died quite sud- 
denly and as he had been poor and unknown, 
nobody took any interest in the little waif he had 
left. It was in vain that he told the family he 
had been left with, that he had been stolen from 
his parents, and begged them to take him home, 
for they would not believe his story, nevertheless 


158 


farmer carson’s sons. 


they had become greatly attached to him and 
would have brought him up as their own child but 
their family was too large and they were poor, so 
they felt that they could not afford to keep him. 
They put him in a Catholic boy’s orphan asylum 
and he told his story to the Sisters. They tried 
to find his home, but as he could not even remem- 
ber the name of the place where he had lived, 
their efforts proved fruitless. 

When he reached this part of the story, his 
mother wiped from her eyes the tears which 
started afresh at the mention of the Catholic or- 
phan asylum. “I knew it was’nt his fault,” she 
said to herself. 

He remained at the asylum until he was nine 
years old, when a wealthy Catholic gentleman from 
Pennsylvania adopted him to be a companion for 
his son, a boy a little older than himself. Here 
he found a very happy and pleasant home and the 
two boys became as firmly attached to each other 
as the most affectionate brothers could be. Eddie 
was treated by everyone as an equal to his adopted 
brother and had every enjoyment that he 
could desire. These were indeed the happiest 
days of his life and though for a time he 
had little leisure to think of the home of his 
infancy, the memory of it was never quite ob- 


farmer carson’s sons. 


159 


liviated from his mind and he often thought that 
when he got to be a man he would find that dear 
old home. 

Four years passed, and then the first sorrow he 
had known in this home came, namely the separa- 
tion from his brother. The parents had, from the 
boy’s very infancy, noticed in him a vocation for 
the priesthood, which grew stronger each year, 
until now having almost reached his fourteenth 
birthday, they sent him to Baltimore to enter upon 
his preparatory course of studies. Eddie begged 
to be allowed to accompany him, but the parents 
refused, telling that they could not give up both 
of their boys, and they wished him to fill the place 
of their own son. When school opened the next 
year, however, seeing that he was still persistent 
in his entreaties, and did not seem to care so much 
to be with his brother as for the state of life he 
felt he had been called to, they let him go, giving 
him a parent’s blessing. 

When he was eighteen, about a week after he 
had completed his fourth year in school, he found 
in the attic at his home a box containing the 
clothes that had been brought with him when he 
came from the asylum and they had been thrown 
away as worthless. Among them was the suit 
he had worn the day he was stolen, the tin-type 


160 


farmer carson’s sons. 


of himself from which the picture in his father’s 
parlor had been copied, and a few papers belong- 
ing to the man who had left him as an orphan in 
a strange land. On one of these papers his 
father’s name and address was written. Two days 
later he started for Vermont, hoping to find his 
parents, but they had been gone nearly eleven 
years and no one knew anything of their where- 
abouts, excepting that they had gone west. 

He found several persons in the village who 
had been intimate acquaintances of his parents 
who remembered well how he had been taken from 
home. Among them was an old lady who had 
taken care of himself and his sister Clara, when they 
were babies. On the record at the Methodist 
Church he found the certificate of his parents’ 
marriage, which occurred just twenty years 
before. 

He returned to the seminary with a prayer that 
he might find his parents some time, and remained 
there until the winter after his twenty-fourth 
birthday, when, with his adopted brother, who had 
been kept back a year on account of poor health, 
he was ordained. The following summer he was 
appointed pastor of St. Ambrose Church at 
T , where he was now. 

The priest had noticed his father with the Gib- 


farmer carson’s sons. 


161 


son family the first Sunday that he went to 
church, and had seen him there on several other oc- 
casions, so that he knew him to-day when he met 
him, but had never heard his name until Mrs. Gib- 
son introduced him. It was the first time he had 
heard the name of Carson since he had sought his 
parents in their old home, and his heart thrilled with 
joy at the mention of it. He had entirely for- 
gotten his father’s face, being too young when he. 
had last seen him to remember much about him r 
and he hardly dared hope that he had indeed found 
those dear ones until Mr. Gibson proved to him 
that the man he had just met was his long lost 
father. 

When the story was finished, the parents re- 
newed their words of welcome to their son, telling 
him how happy they were to see him, and that they 
hoped they would never be separated from him 
again. Itwas quite late now, and as there were duties 
which he must attend to at his church, he bade them 
good bye, promising to call again the next day 
and bring the little suit of clothes which he had 
so carefully treasured as objects which might help 
to prove his identity to his parents if he ever 
found them. 

After he was gone, Mr. Carson said, 4 ‘You 
know, Martha, how I always told you that our 


162 


FARMER CARSON’S SONS. 


boy would come home some time, and you see now 
that I was right. ” 

“Yes, ” said, Mrs. Carson, “and I am very 
happy to have seen him once more, but oh, Ed- 
ward, it does not seem possible that he can be my 
eon, our own darling Eddie. ” 

“And don’t you know,” he said, “how just 
before he came I told you that he resembled our 
son, Charlie, and you cannot fail to see that re- 
semblance now. ” 

“Yes, ” she answered, “he does look like 
Charlie, but it seems so hard to believe it all now, 
let us not talk of it any more, ” and the tears 
which she had tried to keep back began to flow 
Rgain. For sometime she wept, and even Grace’s 
.soothing words had no effect on her. She hardly 
knew herself whether her tears were for joy or 
sorrow, but they seemed mingled with both ; with 
joy because the lost one had been found, and with 
sorrow because — why was it that she dared not 
mention the cause of her grief in the presence of 
her husband. To think that her own child was a min- 
ister of that religion which from her childhood she 
had learned to abhor was almost more than she 
could bear. 

Her husband on the other hand, was elated with 
joy to know that the priest who preached such 


farmer carson’s sons. 


163 


grand sermons and on whom he had long ago 
learned to look as a model of perfect Christianity, 
should prove to be his own son. Even now he 
felt that it was better the boy had been taken 
from him, for had he been brought up at home as 
his brothers had, he would probably, like them, 
never been any more than a common laborer or 
farmer, while now, besides, being where even, 
though he was a Catholic, he might do a great 
deal of good, he had a fine education, which was 
more in the eyes of this uneducated farmer than 
anyone would have thought. 

The next afternoon Father Bristol brought out 
each relic that he had saved from his childhood 
and had them ready to take home to his mother. 
How he rejoiced in the thought that in performing 
his duty God had guided him to the door of his own 
parents. He had celebrated Mass that morning in 
thanksgiving for that great pleasure, but he would 
not satisfy himself that his identity had been 
proved until his mother had seen those things, and 
he could hardly wait until he would be at leisure 
to go to her with them. His office must be said 
before he went, and numberless other duties would 
occupy his time until afternoon At length he 
was ready to go, and was just driving out of the 
yard, his mind filled with happy thoughts of his 


164 


farmer oarson’s sons. 


parents, when a messenger came, saying that a 
man was very ill in a town about twenty miles dis- 
tant, and as the parish priest was not at home he 
was requested to go to him. 

The day was quite chilly, and had it not been 
for the disappointment accompanying it, the pros- 
pects of such a long drive would not have been at 
all pleasant, but the zealous young priest thought 
of nothing but duty which to-day called him out- 
side of his own parish, and turning his horse in an 
opposite direction from his home, he started on his 
errand of charity. It was late at night when he 
returned and the next forenoon, which was Satur- 
day, another sick call a long distance in the coun- 
try kept him away until late in the afternoon, 
when he reached home to find other duties await- 
ing him and to finish his day’s work by remaining 
until a late hour in the confessional. The next 
morning after saying an early Mass, he went to 
say another Mass in a parish he had charge of 
about nine miles away and vespers had to be sung 
on his return. Monday morning he was called 
away quite unexpectedly and did not return until 
Wednesday, so it was a week after his first visit 
to his parents before he could call on them again. 

They had watched for him every day, and were 
quite disappointed that he did not come . Mr. 


farmer carson’s sons. 


165 


«Carson said he knew that something must have 
happened to keep him away, but his mother, who 
was more sensitive and believed the majority of 
the Catholics to be very bigoted, ventured to say 
that perhaps he did not care for them when he 
found that they were Protestants, and would not 
call on them again. 

Thursday afterneon he came, and when his 
mother heard why he had remained away so long, 
she said, “ I had no idea that Catholic priests, had 
so much to do. If you were only in some city 
church where you would only have a small parish 
and would not be obliged to go out in the country, 
how nice it would be. I don’t see how you can 
stand this. ” 

“My work is easy compared with what is to be 
done in the city churches, mother, ” he said, 4 ‘ and 
I should not complain. ’' 

“Easy?” repeated his mother, “how can you 
•call it so when you are liable to be called away to 
visit the sick at any time and you are never sure 
•of a night’s rest? ” 

“We do it for the love of God, ” was the re- 
ply, 4 4 and we should thank him for giving us the 
strength to perform our duty. ” 

4 4 What a true spirit of Christianity, ” his mother 
said more to herself than to him, “if we only had 


166 


farmer carson’s sons. 


such as he among our ministers, I think there 
would be more true Christians. ” 

There had been a time when her child Eddie 
was at home with her that she had entertained 
some hope of his becoming a minister when 
he grew up, and before he was taken from her 
she had begun to try to instill in his infant mind 
a love for religion and a desire to be a preacher, 
perhaps a missionary to some heathen land. In 
spite of her bigotry Mrs. Carson was most sincere 
in her own religious belief and desired to do what 
was right. She had prayed for her boy, and al- 
though she was as yet unable to realize it, God 
had rewarded her simple earnest prayers by giving 
the greatest blessing that could ever fall upon any 
son, namely, the privilege of performing the 
sacred duties of a Catholic priest, for what man, 
however holy his life may be, if he is not a priest 
can perform that sacred and sublime mystery of 
changing bread and wine to the body and blood 
of Jesus Christ by using the same words the divine 
Redeemer used at the last last supper, the night be- 
fore he suffered to expiate the sins of the world, 
and which he authorized — yes, commanded his 
apostles, and their successors as well, to do in com- 
memoration of Him ? 

The mother was blind to the sacred office her 


farmer carson’s sons. 167 

son held, but he, her boy, for whom she had 
prayed, also prayed for her, prayed most earnest- 
ly that she might learn to know and love her God, 
not as she worshipped now in darkness, but in 
the light of the true faith, and that prayer would 
be answered, for the time was to come when, like 
another Saul, she would in a moment be con- 
verted. But that time was far off, and another 
than himself was chosen to reap the harvest of the 
seeds sown by his most earnest prayer. 

Carefully Mrs. Carson undid the parcel her son 
had brought her, as if it contained relics made 
almost sacred to her by being treasures that had 
belonged to some dear departed dead, and care- 
fully she examined each little article of clothing 
which her own fingers had made years ago, when 
she was a young woman, and which recalled so 
many memories of those days. If there had been 
any shadow of a doubt lingering in her mind as 
to his identity, there was none now, and she saw 
in him not a leader and strong professor of a relig- 
ion which she despised, but her own lost boy 
grown to a man, whom she felt proud to call her 
son. 


168 


farmer carson’s sons. 


CHAPTER III. 

HANKSGIVING eve the same family circle* 



that had been here two years ago wore 
assembled around the table, Eddie, the same as on 
that night, being the only one that was absent, 
and he might have been here, but Mr. Carson 
thought it best to wait until to-morrow, when 
Clara and her two brothers, who were still ignor- 
ant of the happy meeting in store for them, would 
be prepared for it. 

Grace had set the table for tea, and after all 
were seated, Clara, glancing to where the vacant 
place should have been; said, “ Haven’t you for- 
gotten something, Grace ?” 

“ What is it, Clara?” asked her sister with a 
merry twinkle in her eye, for she knew what Clara 
meant. 

“ Eddie’s plate and chair,” was the reply, 
“You know father always wants them there when 
we eat our first meal together after being separated 
for any length of time.” 

“ Never mind about it now,” said Mr. Carson, 

4 ‘ we can set the table for him to-morrow, and 


farmer carson’s sons. 


169 


then” — a look from his wife silenced him, for she had 
warned him not to tell the good news until after 
supper, when the family were assembled in the 
parlor. 

Pointing to Clara’s oldest boy, who occupied 
the place next to his grandfather which had been 
left vacant, she said, “You see, Clara, we have 
found another Eddie who is like our boy was when 
he left us, only a few weeks more and he will be the 
same age, so let him have the place of honor just 
for to-night,” and the last words were said in a 
lingering tone, u just for to-night. ” 

“How kind of you, mother,” said Clara, 
“ and I hope that my little boy will prove to his 
dear grandma to be all that her own Eddie was, 
and I wish he could make up to her for his loss.” 
Had Clara spoken these words to her mother at 
any other time, she would have appreciated them 
as coming from the kind heart of her favorite 
daughter, but now it seemed as if Clara, though 
unconsciously, were trying to lessen her mother’s 
affections for her own son by putting a grandson 
in his place. 

The evening meal was over now, and the family 
were all in the parlor. Mr. Carson stirred up 
the coals in the fireplace, added a new supply of 
fuel, and, lighting his pipe, sat before the fire 


170 


farmer carson’s sons. 


for a few minutes watching now the burning coals, 
then the wreaths of smoke rising from his pipe as 
if trying to find in them words to express his 
thoughts. 

44 Father has something very important to 
say, ’ ’ thought -Clara, 4 4 and 1 wonder what it can 
be, and Charlie who had been watching his father, 
said, 4 4 A penny for your thoughts, father, I know 
it must be something interesting.” 

44 Yes, it is, Charlie,” he said, “I have some 
very good news for you, but I hardly know how 
to tell it. ” 

“What is it ?” asked his son, growing more in- 
terested when he saw the happy expression on his 
father’s face. 

“We have found your lost brother, Eddie, at 
last,” said Mr. Carson, 44 and he will be here to 
spend the day with us to-morrow.” 

4 4 What ? ” asked Clara, turning quickly to her 
father, 4 4 found my brother, can it be possible, 
you do not mean it, father ?” 

4 4 It is so,” said Mr. Carson, 4 4 Eddie has been 
home and will be here again to-morrow. ” 

“Where is he now?” asked Charlie, 44 and 
where has he been all these years?” 

Frank was no less surprised than the others ; he 
arose and stood before his father, but could not 


farmer carson’s sons. 


171 


find words to express his astonishment. 

Mr . Carson emptied the ashes from his pipe in 
the fireplace, laid it down and commenced to tell 
the story. At the mention of his being a Catholic 
priest, Clara turned pale and interrupted her 
father, saying, * 4 Oh, father, this is too much, I 
cannot bear the thought of it. If you had told me 
my brother was dead, it would not seem so sad. 
Oh, mother ! oh, Eddie ! ” and calming herself a 
little, she continued : 44 I will try to welcome him 
as a dear brother; and will never let him know the 
grief I feel in finding him as he is.” 

Clara, being the oldest girl, had always been 
her mother’s favorite, and their likes and dislikes 
had ever been the same, but in nothing did their 
thoughts find more unity than in their religious 
belief, so now the words that came from her 
heart in sympathy for her mother were merely an 
echo of what she knew her mother’s feelings must 
be. But how differently did Charlie receive the 
news. He said nothing, but his face told only too 
plainly that what displeased his sister was more 
joyful news to him, and he could hardly refrain 
from saying 44 1 am very happy to know that in 
my family there is one who will be a friend to me 
now.” Frank, too, was silent, for he had been 
studying his brother’s countenance and thought he 


172 


farmer carson’s sons. 


possessed a secret , bat he would not betray it. 

The next morning Eddie came and was greeted 
by a most hearty welcome from his two brothers, 
while Clara gave him a welcome that never could 
have betrayed the disappointment she felt 
in finding him so changed. A happier day was 
never spent at the Carson farm house, for they 
were all at home now and the vacant chair at the 
table was filled at last. Eddie proved to be a most 
cheerful and entertaining guest, rather than the 
stern puritanical clergyman they had expected to 
find him, and even Clara, who was more adverse to 
having anyone belonging to her a Catholic than 
her mother herself could have been, forgot the 
presence of the obnoxious Roman collar in the en- 
joyment of her brother’s company. After he was 
gone she said that she never thought a Catholic 
priest could be so friendly, for she had al- 
ways believed them to be cold and distant. Her 
mother answered her, saying that she thought 
Eddie must be an exception. 

After dinner, when the family were just seated 
around the fireplace in the parlor for a pleasant 
conversation, a rap came to the door, and Mrs. 
Carson on opening found Tommie Gibson there, 
apparently very much excited. “Is Father Bris- 
tol here ?” he asked in a tone which told that some- 


farmer carson’s sons. 


173 


thing was the matter. 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Carson, 4 ‘ he is spending the 
day with us.” 

“ Please tell him I would like to see him,” said 
the boy. 

Mrs. Carson called her son and the boy told him 
his brother Willie was dying and wished to see 
him. 

“ I am sorry you must leave us,” said his 
mother, “ when we had anticipated so much pleas- 
ure in having you spend the whole day with us.” 

“ Never mind, mother,” said the priest, “I do 
not like to disappoint you, but I’d rather go, and 
perhaps I will not be gone long.” 

“ I wouldn’t ask you to stay when you can 
be of any service to that poor boy,” said his 
mother, “so go now; we can do without your 
company better than he can.” 

“Thank you mother,” he said, “ I will try 
to be back soon.” 

All the afternoon they anxiously watched for 
his return, but he did not come until nearly ten 
o’clock, when he stopped to bid them good-night 
and to tell them that William Gibson’s sufferings 
were over. His death, which had been almost 
hourly expected for nearly two weeks, had come a 
few minutes before. 


174 


FARMER CARSON’S SONS. 


The next afternoon Charlie went to call on his 
brother and to tell him the secret which ere long 
he must make known to his parents. Instead of 
taking his mother’s advice and giving up Theresa 
Kinney, he had pondered more on her words, 

< 4 you can never live in happiness with one whose 
religion differs so much from your own, ” and on 
his return to the city he had entered upon his in- 
structions in the Catholic faith. It had seemed 
hard at first to think of embracing a religon so 
different from the one he had been brought up in, 
but as he began to understand more clearly the doc- 
trines of Catholicity, he had learned to admire 
them, and now, after nearly two years, he felt that 
he was fully prepared for baptism. The priest 
from whom he had been receiving instructions had 
told him he was, and he was to have received the 
Sacrament on his return to the city. As his 
brother was a priest, he wished to ask the favor 
of receiving this, his first Sacrament, from him. 

Father Bristol questioned him and found him to 
be well instructed, but would not promise to bap- 
tize him until after he had written to the priest 
from whom he had received his instructions, which 
he did that night. He received an answer the fol- 
lowing Monday, telling him that his brother was- 
most sincere in his intention and thoroughly 


farmer carson's sons. 175 

understood the nature of the step he was about to 
take. The priest had looked forward with joy to 
the time when he should make him a member of 
the Catholic fold, but now he would give that 
pleasure to his brother, and he hoped soon to hear 
that Charles Carson was a Catholic. 

Sunday Charlie attended Mass with his father, 
who could not be prevailed upon to go to any-other 
ohurch now, and little Willie, his youngest 
brother, who after much coaxing had been permit- 
ted by his mother to go to hear his brother 
preach. 

Monday morning William Gibson was buried, 
and it was to attend his funeral that Mrs Carson 
first crossed the threshold of the Catholic church 
accompanied by the whole family excepting Grace, 
who had remained at home with Clara’s children. 
Charlie acted as one of the bearers and his mother, 
who sat near him, soon noticed that he was no 
stranger in the Catholic church, for he stood or 
knelt when the others did with an ease that showed 
that he knew what he was doing. u Can it be that 
he too, is a Catholic, ” she thought. Her atten- 
tion was fixed on her other son at the altar and 
watching him and listening to the sweet, sad 
strains of music wafted from the choir, she for- 
got Charlie. 


176 


farmer carson’s sons. 


When on her return home her husband asked 
Jier how she liked the services, she only answered, 
“ It is a very strange religion,” while Clara’& 
answer was that she thought Eddie was a very 
fine preacher, but oh, what a pity that he should be 
a Catholic priest when he might be such a good 
minister. 

That night Charlie informed his parents of his 
intention to become a Catholic. His father told 
him that as for him he was at liberty to do as he 
pleased, but to his mother, as might be expected, 
the disclosure was anything but pleasant She 
told him how it grieved her to see him giving up 
his own religion just to please a girl, and begged 
of him now before he had taken the final step 
which would bind him to the Catholic church to 
be man enough to turn back from the path of 
error which he was about to enter. ‘ ‘ Your brother 
was brought up to it, ” she said, “and cannot be 
blamed so much, but you whom I have brought 
up myself and taught what was right should know 
better. ” 

“My brother,” said Charlie, “is not as igno- 
rant as you may imagine. He knows that the 
faith he teaches is truth itself, as do 1, and know- 
ing that faith as I do now, I could not with a free 
conscience remain outside the church even if I had 


farmer carson’s sons. 177 

never known Theresa Kinney or any other Catho- 
lic girl. ” 

“ Do you mean to tell me, ” said Mrs. Carson, 
“ that she has not influenced you to take this 
step?” 

“ I do,” said her son, “ that is — well, of course, 
in the beginning when I first commenced to study 
her religion, I did it to please her and to prove to 
myself that she was right in her belief. If I 
had failed in the latter, I would have given her up 
sooner than become a member of the church, but I 
am fully convinced that she is right and I shall 
delay no longer. ” 

“My son, how can you talk in that way?” 
asked Mrs. Carson in a grieved tone. 

Charlie felt that he had been rather bold in say- 
ing this to his mother, who had brought him up 
so differently, but he only spoke the truth from 
his heart and he would not relent. 

At last his mother said, “ Since you are of age 
and old enough to know your own mind I sup- 
pose there is no use of offering any further objec- 
tions, although it grieves me very much to see 
you do this, besides if you insist upon marrying 
her it will be better for you both to be of one re- 
ligion. ” 

When Charlie came home he had intended re- 


178 farmer Carson’s sons. 

maining only a week, but as he would have but 
little to do if he returned to the city, he decided 
not to go back until after the Christmas holidays, 
when he intended to be married. Two weeks from 
the Sunday after he came home he was baptised by 
his own brother, Mr. and Mrs. Gibson being his 
godfather and godmother. 

Theresa Kinney was an orphan now, alone in 
the world with no one excepting her little brother 
left out of a once large family. Her mother had 
been dead about a year and a half, and she 
had promised her on her death bed that she would 
never marry Charlie Carson until he became a 
Catholic. She would keep this promise even 
though she had to spend many lonely hours in the 
little home,, which, for her brother’s sake, she 
would not give up. And lonely hours, indeed, 
they often were, especially as the Christmas holi- 
days drew near, those days which had always 
been such happy ones for them while their par- 
ents were living. Two years ago they had en- 
joyed such a pleasant Christmas with their mother, 

, and a year ago they had spent it in the home of 
an uncle in the country, but mother was gone 
now and their uncle had moved away to the far 
west, so they must remain at home alone. 

Theresa thought of this a great deal, as the great 


farmer carson’s sons. 


179 


holiday drew near and wished that she had some kind 
friends with whom to spend it, not that she cared 
for herself, for she would be contented to remain 
alone, but her little brother, he would be so lonely, 
as she could not make the day as happy for him 
as when their dear mother was living. She felt 
this more keenly when, one day about a week be- 
fore Christmas, he came home from school and 
told her the plans the boys had been making that 
day about how and where they were to spend the 
holidays. 

One boy was to visit his grand parents, another 
his uncle, a third was to have a big Christmas 
tree at home with his brothers and sisters, while 
another expected several of his cousins from the 
country, “And dear, sister,” said the boy, “I 
couldn’t help feeling bad when they asked me 
how I was agoing to spend Christmas for, I could 
not tell them I was going anywhere.” 

“Never mind, dearest brother,” said Theresa, 
trying to choke back her sorrow .at seeing her 
brother so lonely. “We will have a Christmas 
ourselves and you may invite any boys you wish.” 

“ May I Theresa ?” he said eagerly “How 
kind you are,” and he went on telling who he 
would invite, until Theresa began to wonder if 
their little rooms would hold so many boys, but 


180 


farmer carson’s sons. 


she would not disappoint him by refusing to in- 
vite any one that he thought of. 

The Christmas tree was all that he talked of 
during the remainder of the day, but in the morn- 
ing a letter came which changed his thoughts. 
He was getting ready to go to school when the 
letter carrier brought it in. Theresa glanced at 

the post mark and saw that it was from T , 

Charlie Carson’s home, but the writing was not 
his. “I wonder who it can be from?” she 
thought as she tore it open . To her surprise, she 
found that it was an invitation from Mrs. Carson 
for herself and brother to spend the holidays at 
her home. She said the family would be very 
happy to have them come and hoped they would 
not disappoint them. 

“ How kind of Mrs. Carson to send us the invi- 
tation,” she said more to herself than to her 
brother, who with a happy, eager face had been 
listening to her read the letter, “but of course I 
shall decline the invitation.”- 

‘‘Won’t you go, Theresa?” he asked, the happy 
expression fading from his face. “Why not?” 

“Because,” said his sister, “I do not think it 
would be proper. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ 1 don’t see why not, ” said the boy, « ‘ since 
Mrs. Carson has been so good as to invite us, and 


farmer carson’s sons. 


181 


we would enjoy ourselves so much if we went.” 

Theresa was silent, for she did not wish to dis- 
appoint her brother by refusing to go, neither 
did she wish to accept this invitation which had 
probably been sent at Charlie’s request. 

“You will go won’t you, Theresa?” he pleaded, 
and he was on her knee now looking earnestly 
into her face, ‘ 4 I want to see Charlie’s little brother, 
Willie, so much, and his pleasant home, which I 
have so often heard him tell about.” 

“Wouldn’t you rather remain at home and 
have your Christmas tree?” she asked. 

“No,” he said, “ I want to go to the country, 
for it will be so nice there and I know you will 
enjoy it more than staying here and — and having 
a house full of boys to bother you.” 

“I will not mind that,” said his sister, “if you 
only enjoy yourself with them.” 

“But I would enjoy myself more in the coun- 
try,” he said. “Now won’t you go? Please 
write this morning and tell Mrs. Carson you will 
come.” 

“I will think about it,” said his sister, “but 
it is time for you to go to school now ” Button- 
ing his coat around his neck and putting on his 
cap, she kissed him good-bye and stood watching 
from the window as he hurried off to tell the boys 


182 


FARMER CARSON’S SONS. 


that he expected to spend the holidays in the 
country. 

After reading Mrs. Carson’s letter over several 
times, trying to consider whether or not to accept 
the invitation, Theresa sat dowh to answer it. No 
more was said about Charlie than about any of the 
other members of the family and perhaps after all it 
was not him that caused it to be sent, and here she 
was right, for Charlie knew nothing about the 
letter. His parents wishing to give him a sur- 
prise, would not let him know it had been sent 
until she came. Theresa thought how anxious 
her brother was to go and what a pleasure it would 
be for him, so now, as was often the case, his 
will became hers. When he came home from 
school the letter was written, and with a light 
heart he went out to mail it. 

About an hour before the evening train was 

© 

due on the twenty-third of December, Mr. Carson 
drove up to the door with the double sleigh and 
told Charlie that he wished him to go to the train 
with him as he expected company from the east. 

Charlie looked at his father curiously, and see- 
ing that he was dressed better than he usually 
was when he went to town, said, “Who is it that 
you expect, father?” 

“ A lady,” said Mr. Carson, with a laugh. 


farmer carson’s sons. 183 

“ And may I ask her name ?” said Charlie. 

“ Never mind about that,” answered his father, 

you’ll find out who she is when you see her, and 
I think you will be glad to see her, too, ” he added, 
with a merry twinkle in his eye. 

Charlie took his seat in the sleigh, wondering 
what new scheme his father had, and why he 
would not tell him who the expected guest was, 
but the truth never once entered his mind until he 
reached the depot. The train had just come when 
they drove up to the platform, and among the few 
passengers who alighted he noticed a lady with a 
little boy. He thought they looked familiar, but 
as it was quite dark he could not tell who they 
were. His father saw them, too, and pointing to 
them as they entered the depot, he said, u 1 think 
those are the ones I expected and as I don’t want to 
get out of the sleigh, I wish you’d go in and tell 
them I’m waiting.” 

Charlie glanced through the window, in f ront of 
which they had stopped, and all at once the truth 
dawned upon him. He did not see Theresa, but 
her brother was standing by the window, and 
when he saw Charlie he ran to the door to meet 
him, saying “ Here he is, Theresa.” As soon as 
Charlie recovered from his surprise, he bade 
them welcome and led the way out to where his 


184 


FARMER CARSON’S SONS. 


father was waiting. 

“ Will wonders ever cease ?” he thought, when 
he learned how his mother had invited Theresa and 
her brother to spend the holidays with them, and 
the hearty welcome that th6y received from the 
whole family surprised him little less. To think 
that his mother had so strongly objected to having; 
him even go with this girl, and now for her to 
bring her to her home to make a visit would have 
been more than he could have believed had he not 
seen it. Since his brother Edward had been found, 
a great change seemed to have come over his 
mother, but still such an act as this on her part 
was more than he could ever have hoped for. 

On Christmas morning one of the happiest events 
of Charlie’s life took place, and it was a day never 
to be forgotten by the young neophyte, for it was 
then that in company with his intended bride he 
approached the holy table for the first time to re- 
ceive his blessed Redeemer under the sacramental 
veil of the blessed Eucharist. 

Theresa’s gentle winning ways soon won the 
affection of the whole family, and Mrs. Carson 
herself said that she did not think Charlie could 
have chosen one who would make him a better 
wife, while her little brother Francis was a no less 
welcome guest. Mr. and Mrs. Carson had a plan 


farmer carson’s sons. 


185 * 


which they hoped would be carried out in case 
they liked her, but they were a little disappointed 
here. They had intended to give them a grand 
wedding just after the holidays, but Theresa would 
not consent to to be married in any other church 
than the one which she had attended since she was 
child; and where the funerals of her parents had 
taken place. The week of her visit passed too 
quickly for the Carson family, for they all regret- 
ted her departure, and as they bade her good-bye 
Mrs Carson whispered to her that she hoped that 
it would not be long ere she might have the pleas- 
ure of calling her daughter. 

Mrs. Carson soon had her desire gratified, for 
about four weeks later the weddiog took place in 
Buffalo. They were married at a high Mass by 
Father Bristol, Charlie’s brother, who had come to 
perform the cermony ; his brother Frank acted as 
groomsman and Grace as bridesmaid. None of 
the other members of the family were present. A 
quiet wedding breakfast was served at Theresa’s- 
home after Mass, and the little company of six took 

a noon train for T , where, at the Carson farm 

house, a grand feast was awaiting them, and many 
of the most intimate friends of the family were 
ready to give them a welcome and to shower upon 
them their best wishes for a long and happy mar- 


186 


farmer carson’s sons. 


ried life. Never were Mr. and Mrs Carson more 
proud than when they introduced their new 
daughter-in-law to their friends. 

The next morning the happy pair started on 
their wedding trip to Michigan, where they were 
to spend a few days with Clara, who had sent them 
a most pressing invitation to make her a visit. 
Theresa had never before been separated from her 
brother, but she left him with Mrs. Carson until 
their return, and in doing so she felt that he was 
in good hands, while he felt perfectly at home at 
the farm house. On their return they went to 
Buffalo, where they made their home in a neat lit- 
tle cottage located in a more pleasant part of the 
€ity than where Theresa’s old home had been. 


FARMER CARSON’S SONS. 


18 T 


CHAPTER IV. 


S the weeks and months passed and the 



1 ** Carson family grew better acquainted with 
the new-found brother, they all became greatly at- 
tached to him, and many pleasant hours were 
spent in his company. His father grew prouder 
of him each day and never seemed happier than 
when he heard some of the parishioners tell of his 
kindness to them, and especially to the poor ; or 
when, from a front seat which had been reserved 
for him in the church, he watched his son at the 
altar and listened to his sermons and instructions, 
for he attended the church now much oftener than 
before, but it was alone that he came, for his wife 
would never, excepting on some great occasion, 
accompany him, and she did not want the children 
to get in the habit of going to a church that was 
not their own. The thought of becoming a Catho- 
lic, however, was as far from his mind now as on 
the day some months before the discovery of their 
son when his wife had asked him if he intended 
to join that church. 

The mother, too, could not help feeling proud 
of her boy, but she would never admit it to any- 


188 farmer carson’s sons. 

one. If it were a Catholic friend she heard speak 
:his praises, she would often try to appear as in- 
different as any mothor could when her son’s name 
was mentioned, and would change the subject, 
while to some of her most intimate Protestant 
friends she would say, ‘‘ What a pity it is that 
Eddie could not have been -a minister, when he 
preaches so nice and might have done so much 
good in our church, besides, how much better it 
would be if he had a wife to help him, instead of 
living alone all his life with no one to take any in- 
terest in him.” But Mrs. Carson called on her 
son very often, and she was quite surprised that 
he never mentioned her religion to her. This 
was one reason why she allowed the children to 
call on him whenever they wished, for she said she 
knew he had more sense than to interfere with 
what she had taught them. 

While the mother and children thought only of 
the pleasure of the priests company, the father’s 
curiosity drew him almost unconsciously into far 
deeper channels. He wanted to know the mean- 
ing of some of those ceremonies, which from the 
first time he set foot inside the Catholic church 
had puzzled him so much, and when no one was 
present to hear him and twit him afterward of 
being interested too much in things that ought 


farmer carson’s sons. 189 

not to concern him, he questioned his son about 
them. Contrary to that oft repeated accusation 
of being afraid to tell anyone all that was done in 
the churches, which is laid to Catholics, he re- 
ceived explanations in simple words that the most 
ignorant could not fail to understand, and yet 
with a fullness that might have satisfied the 
learned . 

Some times he would bring with him a small 
Bible, w T hich he could carry in his pocket, so that 
he could take it from the house without having it 
noticed, and talk over passages which had puzzled 
him most when reading them for his family, as 
his wife had always insisted upon his doing every 
Sunday afternoon or evening. For an hour or 
two, and sometimes three, he would listen to his 
son talk or read from some book in which he was 
interested, and while he realized it not, he was 
fast becoming a Catholic in his belief. 

This had gone on for many months, and one 
day after he had been listening with more than 
usual interest to an explanation of a passage from 
the Bible, over which his wife and himself had 
many arguments, and which one understood no 
better than the other, for it was one of the proofs 
of a Catholic doctrine which they did not care to 
admit vras true, Mr. Carson said while the tears 


190 


farmer carson’s sons. 


almost glistened in his eyes: 44 How grand your 
religion is and how happy you must be to be a 
member of such a church.” 

44 We Catholics are indeed happy,” answered 
the priest. 

1 4 The life of a Catholic always seemed hard to 
me, ” said his father, but it don’t any more, and 
if” — he paused. 

4 4 What is it father? ” asked the other. 

44 1 was going to say if I wasn’t so old I be- 
lieve I would join your church myself. ” 

44 Too old father?” said the priest reproachfully. 
k< Yes,’ 4 said Mr. Carson, 44 1 never joined any 
church, although your mother used to beg me 
to, but it is too late for a man of my age to think 
of it now. I have always tried to do right by 
everybody, and 1 think I will be saved just as. 
much as some of our strictest church members 
who call themselves Christians. ” 

Father Bristol shook his head. 4 4 Father,” he 
said, in a tender voice, 4 4 it is never too late to 
think of the salvation of your soul ; old age is the 
time when we should give our whole hearts to 
God if we never have before, for then the time 
that we must meet Him is near at hand, and He 
alone can help us in that hour when the world is 
ebbing away. It is not for life that we belong to 


farmer carson's sons. 


191 


the church and live up to its rules, but as a pre- 
paration for death. What better preparation 
could we make than to follow the rules which 
Jesus Christ has given us in His church? We have 
no right to make rules for ourselves and disre- 
spect the ones He has laid down for us, for is He 
not wiser than we and did He not know what was 
best for us when He save them? ’ ’ 

Mr. Carson was silent for some time, for the 
words of his son had sunk deep into his heart and 
•a new light had crossed his path. At last he said, 
“ My son you have convinced me and I will join 
your church. I am ready now to be baptized. ” 

“ Not yet, father,” said the other, “ for you 
do not understand the Catholic religion and you 
must know it and believe in it before you can em- 
brace it.” 

“ I do believe in it now,” said his father, “ and 
as for knowing it, what more is there for me to 
learn? Haven’t you answered every question I 
have asked you and explained many other things 
besides?” 

“Yes” answered his son, “but there is still 
much more for you to learn before I can receive 
you into the church. ” 

‘ ‘ I am satisfied with what you have already 
told me, ” said Mr. Carson, “and I ask to know 


192 


farmer carson’s sons. 


no more, for I am certain that there could not bo 
anything in your religion that I would ever ob- 
ject to if I knew it a thousands times better.” 

“It is not that I think that in knowing more 
about the Catholic religion than you do there 
would be any posibility of your changing your 
mind, ” said the priest, “on the contrary, the 
more you know of it the more you will admire it.” 

“If that be the case, ” said Mr. Carson, “ why 
not be received into the church now and learn 
more about it afterwards? Would not that do just 
as well? ” 

The priest shook his head, “Would you wish,” 
he said, 4 4 to take such a step as this — a step up- 
on which the eternal salvation of your soul de- 
pends — without first knowing and considering well 
what you are doing? ” 

“No,” said Mr. Carson after some reflection, 

‘ 4 but I can never change my mind, it matters not 
how long I may think of it. What a difference 
between you and the Protestant ministers I have 
known ! They are ready to receive anyone who 
wishes to join their church at any time when they 
find that they are sincere in their intentions and 
with hardly any preparations, while you require 
so much of a convert.” 

“We require no more than is necessary n for 


farmer carson’s sons. 


193 


them to know in order to become good and faith- 
ful Catholics,” answered his son, “and we do not 
want to bring anyone into our church in ignorance 
of what it teaches.” 

Mr. Carson was silent for a few minutes, then 
said, “Teach me my son, teach me all that I 
should know in order to become a good and sin- 
cere member of your church . I am willing to 
wait any length of time if I can only die a Catho- 
lic, for I feel that none but the true church of 
Christ could use such caution in admitting strang- 
ers into its communion.” 

“The sacraments intrusted to our care are too 
sacred,” said the priest, “to be given indiscrimi- 
nately to those who know not the greatness of 
them.” 

“I think you are right, my son,” said Mr. 
Carson, “in being so cautious, and I feel more 
than ever that yours is indeed a sacred office. I 
can never tell you what a happiness it is to me, 
your father, and not yet a member of your church, 
to have you where you are, and I am happy to 
know that my son, Charlie, is one of your num- 
ber. How I wish that his brothers and sisters 
might follow his example, but I suppose they 
never will.” 

“Do not worry about them, father,” said the 


194 


farmer carson’s sons. 


other, 4 ‘we can only pray for Ihem and God in 
His infinite goodness and wisdom, will yet bring 
all things right.” 

“I will trust in Him,” said his father, “and 
will not cease to pray for my wife and children.” 

It was in early autumn that the foregoing con- . 
versation took place and the following Holy 
^Saturday after the Batismal waters had been 
blessed, the head of him who had often declared 
that he would never join any church was bowed 
to receive that regenerating stream, which he ac- 
cepted with the pure faith and simplicity of a 
child. Although age had already begun to show 
itself on him in more than one way, he had the 
alertness of youth this morning, and had never 
seemed any happier. He had arisen long before 
any of the rest of the family to get ready to go to 
Mass, which was at an early hour, and he was the 
first one in church. It was with the greatest 
pride he walked up the aisle and stood before a 
large number of his friends, some of whom were 
Protestants, to receive the sacrament of Baptism, 
and all the rest of the day he was as light-hearted 
as a child. His son, had from the very first, found 
him to be a most apt scholar in the truths which 
he taught him and Mr. Carson promised to be a 
most sincere and devout convert . 


farmer carson’s sons. 


195 


Mrs. Carson had, as might be expected, strongly 
rebelled when her husband first told her of his in- 
tentions to become a Catholic, but afterwards, 
when she saw that he was determined, she let him 
have his own way without further comment, but not 
until after she had given him a good sensible talk- 
ing to about setting such a bad example before 
the children; first, by being so careless all his life 
and refusing to join the church she was bringing 
them up in, and, second, by joining another church 
in his old age. On the morning he was baptized 
she would not go to see him, but she allowed the 
children to go and everyone who was at home 
went, some of them more out of idle curiosity 
than for any other motive but they were all deeply 
impressed with the depth of their father’s devotion, 
which was so much greater than what he had 
ever shown in his own church, but most of them 
soon forgot it after leaving the church and going 
home to their mother, who was extremely sad to- 
day and would not be comforted. 

Father Bristol realized it not, but in his family 
he had another admirer, who ever watched him 
with more jealous eyes than his father; it was 
with the eyes of a child, who, in an older brother, 
had found an ideal of perfection whom he wished 
to copy. It was his youngest brother, Daniel, the 


196 


farmer carson’s sons. 


baby ©f the famiiy, who was never so happy as 
when he was with u Father Eddie,” as he called 
him. 

Dan was as unlike the others, as day is unlike 
night. He cared little for their sports, but would 
spend hours at a time among his books, and might 
often be found with book in hand studying or 
reading in the hay loft or hidden under the shade 
of some large tree in the pasture. In his classes 
he was always at the head and many times his 
teachers prophesied that with the chance of an edu- 
cation he would make a very learned man. His 
father listened to this with pride and often de- 
clared that Dan should have a good education if 
he had to mortgage the farm to pay for it. 

Dan loved to roam alone in the fields and for- 
ests and study the beauties of nature, but what he 
enjoyed most of all was to visit his brother, Ed- 
ward, and listen to him talk or spend a few hours 
in a well-filled library which was kept for the 
children of the parish. Dan was delighted with 
this at first but soon he began to grow interested 
in another larger book-case, which stood in the 
same room, and his busy brain would not rest 
until he had investigated the contents of its 
shelves. From the children’s story books he had 
been reading, he turned first to the lives of a few 


farmer carson’s sons. 


197 


of the saints in the 44 Young Folks Library,” then 
to more complete editions of the same which he 
found among the larger works, not only these but 
controversial works fell into the hands of the 
youthful student and he read with great interest, 
while many things in them were far beyond his 
comprehension. 

One afternoon on his return from a sick call, 
which had kept him away nearly half the day, 
Father Bristol returned home to find his little 
brother in the library, where he had left him. 

4 4 W ell, Dan, ’ ’ he said, 4 4 you here yet, you haven’t 
been reading the all time while I was away, I 
hope ?” 

4 4 Not quite,” was the reply, 44 1 took about 
half an hour for dinner and was out in the garden 
for a few minutes, but I enjoyed myself more 
here, so I came back.” 

44 1 think you have read enough for to-day,” 
said the priest, 44 but let me see what you have 
there.” He put out his hand and the boy gave 
him a small Latin grammar. 41 1 suppose you 
have your lesson all learned for to day,” he said, 
when he saw what it was ? 

44 Yes, Father,” said Dan, 44 1 learned it this 
morning before I came, and I have just been 
reviewing some of the back lessons to see if I had 


198 


farmer carson’s sons. 


forgotten them.” 

44 Come out on the lawn,” said his brother, 44 for 
it is pleasanter there than here and I will hear you 
recite your lesson, then we will go for a walk, or 
I will drive home with you.” 

Dan had learned nearly everything that was to 
be learned in the country district school he at- 
tended, and as he wanted to know something of the 
languages before he went away to school, he had 
commenced the study of Latin about six months 
before. He was only a little over thirteen now, 
but he had a wonderful memory and learned as 
easily as a much older and more experienced 
student in languages. To-day he had his lesson 
perfectly, but his brother could not help noticing 
that his mind was on something else. 

The lesson over, Father Bristol said, 4k Now, my 
little brother, which will we take, a walk or a 
drive ?” 

44 1 would like to walk home,” said Dan, 4 *if 
you are not too tired after your long drive.” 

4 ‘ I am not tired, ” answered his brother, 4 4 and 
if you prefer walking, I will go over with you, as 
I have nothing more to do to-day.” 

During the first part of the two-mile walk Dan 
said very little, and his brother knowing that some- 
thing must be on his mind, did not try to draw him 


farmer carson’s sons. 


199 


into a conversation, but was almost as disinclined 
to talk as himself. He felt that the boy who for 
some time had shared all of his childish joys and 
sorrows with him, as with an older brother who 
was ever ready to listen and sympathize, was 
keeping something from him which he was half 
afraid to mention. 

At last he said, playfully, u What makes you 
so quiet to-day, my little brother. I hope you 
haven’t been studying so much that you are too 
tired to talk ?” 

“No,” said the boy, “not quite that, but I 
have been thinking a good deal lately about what 
I would like to be when I become a man, and to- 
day while you were gone I just found out.” 

“What is it?” asked the priest, but he was not 
prepared for the answer he was to receive. 

“ A Jesuit,” answered Dan. 

“A what?” asked his brother, to make sure 
that he understood aright. 

“ A Jesuit priest,” was the frank reply. 

“Who told you about the Jesuits?” the priest 
asked in amazement. 

‘ 4 1 have read about them in some of the books 
in your library,” answered Dan, “and I think 
they must be very good men. How I would like 
to be one of them.” 


200 


farmer carson’s sons. 


“And what led you to read so much about 
them?” asked his brother, who was almost as 
much surprised by the last answer as by the first. 

“I read in the u Life of St. Aloysius Gonzaga ” 
how he went to the Jesuit College at Rome to be 
a priest, and I was so interested in him that I read 
another larger history of his life that I found in 
your private library. Having finished that, I 
have been reading about the Jesuit order to-day. 
If I could only go to Rome and live as he did, how 
happy I would be.” 

The priest was silent, for he knew not how to 
answer the child, and the earnestness of his tone 
told that this new idea was one that he would not 
give up easily, although he believed that it was 
only a childish whim. If his brother had been 
born a Catholic and been brought up in that relig- 
ion he might have seen in him the first signs of a 
vocation for the priesthood, but as it was, a child 
of a Protestant mother, and a father only lately 
converted to Catholicity, yes, and one whose only 
religion had been taught him in a Protestant Sun- 
day School, why should he, when so young, think 
of devoting his life to the Cathelic priesthood ? 

Dan, noticing his brother’s silence, turned to 
him and said, “ I hope I haven’t done any wrong 
by reading those books ; I thought there was 


farmer carson’s sons. 


201 


nothing in the library that you would object to 
my reading or I wouldn’t have touched them. ” 
‘ 4 Oh, no, I don’t know that there is any harm 
done, ” answered his brother. 44 The Life of St. 
Aloysius is indeed very beautiful and interesting, 
and anyone who reads of this angelic youth can- 
not help admiring him. ” 

“ That is why I want to be a Jesuit, ” said the 
boy,” because I would like to be as near like him 
as I can. ” 

“ You can try to imitate his virtues and re- 
main where you are, ” said the priest 

44 I will try to imitate him as much as I can, 
said the boy, 44 but I want to be a Jesuit too . ” 
u Don’t you think your are rather young to- 
think of such a thing? ” asked his brother. 

41 1 am over thirteen, ” said Dan, 44 almost as 
old as you were when you thought of becoming a 
priest, and why shouldn’t I be thinking of it too? ” 
Dan’s eager eyes were fixed on his brother, 
who did not wish to wound his feelings by saying 
what was in his mind, 44 Because you were not 
brought up a Catholic. ” He only answered, 44 Let 
us not talk of it any more now, wait till you are 
a little older and you will understand better then 
what you would like to do.” 

Dan was silent at his brother’s bidding, and al- 


202 


farmer carson’s sons. 


though his mind was still on the subject at that 
present was of more interest to him than anything 
else, he tried to appear interested in the various 
topics that were introduced to, divert his thoughts 
until they reached home. The young would-be 
Levite could not, however, refrain from asking 
his brother if he would let him join his church, 
but this was just as they were entering his father’s 
yard and, fortunately, before he was obliged to 
answer one of his sisters had joined them and the 
three walked to the house together. 


farmer carson’s sons. 


20 & 


CHAPTER V. 

t^ATHER BRISTOL discovered ere long that 
Dan’s whim proved to be one that was not 
to be given up without a struggle. The boy did 
not mention it to him again for many months, but 
his actions showed that it was still in his mind and, 
in more than one act he proved himself to be be- 
coming a most devout client of St. Aloysius, while 
he was still a regular attendant at a Sunday 
school where the veneration of saints is con- 
demned. The priest often found new marks in 
the life of this saint after his little brother had 
been in the library, and once he took the book 
away for several days to see if the boy would miss- 
it. Dan was alone in the library that afternoon 
and his brother watched him from a hiding place 
in the next room, and saw a cloud of disappoint- 
ment cover his face when he discovered the ab- 
sence of his favorite book. He did not ask for it 
as he half expected he would, but went again the 
second day to look for it, and thinking that it 
might be lent, waited for it to be returned. 

An other act of the boy which attracted hi« 
brother’s notice, was that he would often steal 


204 


farmer carson’s sons. 


away to the church and with all the devotion of a 
Catholic, who strongly believed in the divine 
presence, he would kneel for awhile in front of 
the altar in silent prayer, and always showed the 
greatest reverence whenever he entered the church 

•O 

at any other time. He never seemed so happy as 
when allowed to accompany his father on holy 
days, when his mother permitted him to go, be- 
cause there were no services at his own church 
which he would miss, but on Sundays he never 
dared ask her permission to go. 

A few weeks after the ‘ 1 Life of St. Aloysius” 
had been returned to its former place, Father 
Bristol imposed another trial upon his hrother, 
by closing him the library and forbidding him to 
touch any of the books for two months, and also 
asked him to discontinne his study of Latin dur- 
ing that time, saying that he needed rest. Dan 
gave up the last, though, rather reluctantly, but 
he begged to be allowed to take his book home. 

u Your book, ” said his brother, when he heard 
this request, ‘ 4 what book do you mean ? ” 

“The ‘Life of St. Aloysius, ” was the reply. 

‘ ‘ I am so interested in it that I cannot give it up 
so long. ”• 

“ Haven’t you read it through yet? ” asked the 
priest, u I thought you had finished it some time 


farmer carson’s sons. 


205 


ago. ” 

“I have read it through several times, ” an- 
swered the boy, “and I am so interested in it that 
I read it and also the little Manual of St. Aloysius, 
which you gave me, every day.” 

“ Can you not deny yourself the pleasure of 
reading the book for a short time ? ” asked his 
brother. 

“If I give up reading it,” said the boy, “lam 
afraid I might lose some of my devotion toward 
my dear patron saint, and it will be harder to 
imitate him. ” 

“You can continue to imitate him just the 
same, ’* said his brother, “ and think of what you 
have read, but you must give up that book as well 
as the others. ” Although he had never before 
heard his brother mention patron saints, he ap- 
peared not to heed the mention of that term, which 
he used with the familarity of one who had al- 
ways known the meaning of it, for a careful 
study of the child’s nature had long ere this re- 
vealed to the priest that his brother had a wonder- 
ful memory, and was one of the most studious of 
children. Dan’s life was one of deep and con- 
tinual study, but he seldom mentioned his 
thoughts to any one, not even his oldest brother, 
who was his greatest friend and confident, unles 


206 


parmer carson’s sons. 


some question of his should draw them forth, and 
then he would speak whatever was in his mind 
with a simplicity and confidence of an infant who 
looked upon him only as a dear brother. 

After a little hesitation Dan said, 6 ‘ It will be 
very hard for me to give up everything that I 
have taken so much pleasure in. I don’t know 
how I can live two long months without my books, 
I shall be so lonely.” 

“You need rest my little brother, ” said Father 
Bristol, “you have been studying too hard, and 
must take it for a while. ” 

“ What studying I do does not harm me, ” an- 
swered Dan, “ and if it is too much forme to 
spend only a short time in study each day as I do 
now, Avhat shall I do when I go away to school? ” 
“ You will be older and stronger then,” said his 
brother, * ‘ but if I should ask you to do this as 
a sacrifice, would you still refuse ? ” 

4 4 It would certainly be a great sacrifice for me 
to give up all of my books, when I am so anxious 
to learn, but if you wish me to do it as such, 1 
will try to do without them for a while, ” said 
Dan with tearful eyes. 

Although deprived of his books, the studious 
boy found it even harder than he had anticipated 
to give up his study altogether. Many times 


farmer carson's sons. 


207 


while working in the fields that summer, where he 
made himself a most useful helper, he might be 
overheard reciting something he had learned in 
school or talking Latin, while on the barn doors 
or on the bare walls of the shed were written 
Latin words and phrases. When he visited his 
brother, which was very seldom now,, being de- 
prived of the use the library, he often er went to 
the church to pray and spent more time there 
than before. 

Strange to say, the young client of St. Aloysius, 
while he was a sincere Catholic in all of his ac- 
tions, never — from the day that he expressed his 
desire to become a Jesuit until two years later, 
when he was a little over fifteen — never by word 
showed any inclination to be a member of the 
faith his holy patron professed, but when he did 
make it known it was with a determination that 
his wishes should be carried out at once. He told 
his brother first of his intention, then his father, 
and asked them both to pray for him that his 
mother might not refuse her consent. Mrs. Car- 
son only tried to persuade him to give up such a 
foolish idea then when she saw that he was de- 
termined she gave her consent, saying that she 
was sorry her baby should leave his own church 
in which she had tried to give him a good Chris* 


208 


farmer carson’s sons. 


tian bringing up, while to her friends she said 
that she had been expecting it for a long time and 
could not think of trying to prevent it. 

But little remained to be done in preparing the 
young convert for Baptism, for after careful study 
he understood well the nature of the step he was 
taking before mentioning his intention to anyone. 
He might have been received into the church early 
in the spring, but he preferred waiting until the 
feast of St. Aloysius. 

The morning of the twenty -first of June dawned 
clear and bright and Dan arose with the sun. It 
was nearly three hours yet before Mass, but there 
was so much to be done, so much to think of; for 
to-day was the feast of his patron saint, the day 
on which he had chosen to embrace the Catholic 
faith, and his only thought was of the great sacra- 
ment he was to receive and of the happiness of 
having found the true faith. 

At half-past seven Father Bristol celebrated 
high Mass in honor of the patron saint of youth, 
after which Dan was baptized and he took the 
name of Aloysius. When it was over his brother 
said to him: “You appear to be very happy, 
dearest brother, are you contented now?” 

“ This is indeed the happiest day of my life,” 
was the reply, “but I shall not be contented un- 


farmer carson’s sons. 209 

til — ” he paused. 

4 4 Until when?” asked Father Bristol. 

“Until lam where you are,” said Dan, “I 
have never for a moment given up the idea of be- 
coming a priest since the day I first mentioned it 
to you and I hope that I shall soon be allowed to 
commence my studies.” 

It was the first time in over two years that Dan 
had spoken of his choice of a state of life and he 
laid his plans most earnestly before his brother, 
asking him to pray for him and to try to help 
him in gaining the consent of his mother, who, he 
was certain, would not give him up as easily for 
the priesthood as she had to become a Catholic. 

About this time another member of the Carson 
family became a convert to the Catholic faith . It 
was none other than Grace, the girl who next to 
Clara had showed most sympathy for her mother 
when her brother was found to be a priest. When 
she was seventeen she had been sent to a convent 
in New York to be educated- and to have her voice 
trained by a noted teacher. Being in constant 
companionship with the sisters and Catholic girls, 
she soon began to admire their faith and wished 
to be one of them. She remained at the convent 
three years and just before she graduated this 
summer she was baptized and came home a happy 


210 


farmer carson’s sons. 


member of the Catholic faith. 

Grace’s voice had been greatly improved and 
when she sang at high Mass the Sunday after she 
came home, those who listened to her said that 
they had never heard a more beautiful voice. She 
had not finished her music yet, so she returned to 
the city late in the autumn to study another year, 
and then she had been promised a high position 
as teacher of vocal music in a young ladies’ semi- 
nary in New York. She was also to sing in the 
•nhoir in one of the largest churches in the city. 

But to return to Dan, who is the hero of the 
last part of the story. Over a year passed after 
his baptism before he dared ask his mother’s per- 
mission to carry out the desire of his heart. He 
had prayed most earnestly that she might not turn 
a deaf ear to his request, but dreaded to ask her 
for fear of being refused. He wished to enter the 
iseminarv this fall, and, as school was to open in a 
few weeks, he could not delay much longer. Each 
Sunday since the day of his first Communion he 
had approachod the holy table, but never had he 
felt more fervor than on the first anniversary of 
that great day, and as he left the church after Mass 
he felt strengthened to let her know his desire. But 
how would he ask her that question which he knew 
must in some measure grieve her ? This was the 


farmer carson’s sons. 


211 


thought that occupied his mind all the way home, 
but he was resolved not to retire that night until 
he had spoken to her of it. 

In the afternoon, finding her alone in the parlor 
reading her Bible, he went to her and told her he 
wished to talk with her. She laid down the book 
reverently, and turning to him said she was always 
happy to listen to anything her children wished 
to tell her. 

Dan paused as if afraid to speak, then in a few 
pleading words told her of his desire to become a 
priest. 

“You become a Catholic priest?” she said in 
an agonizing tone, “Oh, Dan, my child, how can 
you think of doing such a dreadful thing? I 
could not have believed it of you.” 

“Yes mother,” he answered calmly, “I wish 
to become a priest and I hope you will not object. ” 

“ I object,” said his mother, “how could I do 
otherwise ?” 

He looked at her with a pleading glance but 
said nothing, and she continued: “ My boy, you 
do not know what you are asking of your mother, 
you do not realize what a foolish idea you have 
in your head, else you would give it up.” 

“1 have thought of this for a long time, 
mother,” he said, “ and understand well what I 


212 farmer carson’s sons. 

wish to do/’ 

“ 1 fear you have been deluded into this,” said 
Mrs. Carson, “ I do not wish to accuse one of my 
own sons of doing wrong, but 1 believe that your 
brother Eddie is the cause of it ; he has undoubt- 
edly talked you into it.” 

“No, mother, do not blame him,” said Dan, 

4 ‘ Father Edward would never wish anyone to take 
so important a step if it were not their vocation ; 
on the contrary, he would sooner do all that he 
could to prevent it, but, mother, I feel my- 
self that I am called to the same state of life which 
he is leading, and can find happiness nowhere 
else.” 

“Do you mean to tell me that Eddie has 
never spoken to you of this ?” asked his mother. 

“ It was myself that thought of it first, mother,” 
said Dan, “ but I have said but little to him about 
it until quite recently, although the thought has 
been uppermost in my mind for a long time.” 

“ How long ?” asked his mother. 

“Over three years,” was the reply, “ and can- 
not give it up now.” 

“So long as that,” said his mother, reproach- 
fully, “ and you never told me before?” 

Dan did not answer, because he did not wish 
to tell his mother what she already knew, that he 


farmer carson’s sons. 


213 


would only have met with an angry disapproval 
from her, while his strong will would have been 
unchanged. 

“ I suppose,” said Mrs. Carson, “ that when you 
did tell your brother of your desire to follow his ex- 
ample by becoming a Romish priest, he left nothing 
undone to encourage your foolish whim ?” There 
was a touch of little sarcasm in her voice as she 
spoke, but Dan choked back his anger at hearing 
his brother thus spoken of by his own mother, 
and tried to give no heed to her tone. 

‘ ‘ On the contrary, mother, ” he said calmly, 
“my brother offered me no encouragement at 
first, he did not even wish me to speak of it, and 
for that reason I kept silent for a long time, but 
but I can do it no longer, for I feel that it is time 
for me to be preparing for the work which I have 
-chosen for life, and mother I wish to enter upon 
my studies very soon, but cannot do it without 
your permission. ’ ’ 

“ And that I shall never give,’ ’said his mother 
firmly. 

“Oh, mother ! ”he said, “if you only knew 
how much my happiness depends upon it.” 

“I cannot help it, Dan,” said his mother, 
4 4 have you no thought of the grief it would cause 
your mother to see you taking so foolish a step ?” 


214 


FARMER CARSON’S SONS. 


“Mother,” he said “it pains me beyond ex- 
pression to cause you any grief, but how could 
you be grieved to see me, your son, spending his< 
life in the service of God in that to which I know 
He has called me ?” 

“ You are not called upon to make such a sacri- 
fice of your life,” answered his mother, “and I 
cannot permit you to do it, so the sooner you 
give it up the better.” 

“Sacrifice, mother,” he said, “I see no great 
sacrifice in following the dictates of my own con- 
science in choosing the state of life which I know 
willlead to happiness both in this world and the 
next.” 

“Dan, my boy,” said his mother, “how can 
you talk thus? You are not old enough to know 
your own mind. Your father and I have some- 
thing better in store for you, it was for that I per- 
mitted you to become a Catholic, and I hope that 
you will not disappoint us.” 

“Something better,” said her son, “ what do 
you mean, mother, and what could your motive 
have been for permitting me to become a Catholic?” 
Dan could never have believed, had he not heard it 
from his mother’s own lips, that any worldly motive 
could have prompted her to so easily give her con- 
sent to his choosing a religion in which she did not 


farmer carson’s sons. 215 

believe, and now for the first time in his life he felt 
a shadow of distrust in her which it would have 
been hard to conquer. It dawned upon him that 
she was not the sincere Christian she professed 
to be, else how could she act thus ?” 

“ My motive,” said his mother, u I never in- 
tended to mention to you, for I had great hopes 
of seeing it carried out if I said nothing about it, 
but what you have told me this morning gives 
me to know that you do not intend it shall.” 

“ Mother,” said Dan, “ if your wish is a reason- 
able one and one that I can carry out without in- 
terfering with the duty to which I feel my own 
conscience binds me, I shall try to comply with 
it.” 

6 4 My boy,” said Mrs. Carson, “ you are rather 
young to be thinking of such things, but if you 
wish to know what it is I will tell you, and I hope 
in time you may think better of the foolish choice 
you have made.” 

“Yes, tell me, mother,” he said, “and I may 
be able to satisfy your wishes.” 

“ It is this,” said Mrs. Carson, “ ever since you 
were children together, both Mr. Gibson and your 
father have looked forward to the day when you 
should be old enough to marry Mr. Gibson’s 
daughter, Jessie. She is almost fifteen now, and 


216 


farmer carson’s sons. 


it will only be a few years until you are both old 
enough to be married. We know, Dan, that you 
have always thought a great deal of her and she 
does of you, so I am sure you could not fail to be 
happy together, and there is not a girl I know 
whom I think would make a better wife than 
she.” 

“Did that have anything to do with your per- 
mitting me to become a Catholic ?” asked Dan. 

“ Yes, ” was the reply, “for I knew that Jes- 
sie would not wish to give up her religion for you, 
and I thought if you joined her church it would 
please her and you would be happier together. 

“Oh mother, ” said Dan, “how could you do 
such a thing ? ” 

“It was for your happiness, as I have told you 
before, ” said his mother, “ and I hope you will 
try to win Jessie for your wife. You could never 
do better. ” 

“I am very sorry mother, said Dan, “that 
you have made such plans for me. I have always 
liked Jessie as a friend, and still think a great 
deal of her, but I could never think of marrying 
her.” 

“There is time enough to think of that, ” said 
his mother, “and when you get a little older you 
may change your mind. ” 


farmer carson’s sons. 


21T 


“I shall never change my mind, mother, ” said 
Dan, “ all I wish is to become a priest, my hap- 
piness depends upon it, and will you not give your 
consent? ” 

“Never” said Mrs. Carson, “ and do not ask 
me again. ” 

With an aching heart Dan left his mother, for 
he felt that she would never yield to him, and he 
must wait five long years, until he was of age, be- 
fore entering upon the studies for which he was 
now prepared. It was almost time for Vespers 
now, and putting on his hat, he started down the 
road toward the village, but Grace called him 
back. He turned and saw her standing in the 
front yard with Jessie Gibson . 

u We have been waiting for you,” said Grace, 
“to take us to Vespers. The carriage is ready 
and waiting at the side door. ” 

4 • It is so pleasant that I prefer walking, ’ ’ said 
Dan, when he saw his sister’s companion. 

u You will be late if you walk,” said his sister, 
“ and you know you must help me sing the Ves- 
pers, so you had better come with us, besides 
father has harnessed one of the colts for us and I 
do not dare drive it. ” 

“Isn’t father going? ” asked Dan. 

“No. ” said Grace, “he is not feeling well 


218 


farmer carson’s sons. 


this afternoon.” 

Seeing that there was no means of escape, Dan 
helped the two girls in the carriage and took his 
place beside them, wishing for the first time that 
Jessie Gibson had remained at home. He was 
much more disappointed in having her with them, 
when looking back he saw his mother standing in 
the door, watching them, with a triumphant look, 
which seemed to say, “ I am glad you have to 
ride with her. ” 

When Grace returned to New York in the fall 
Dan, who had hoped to accompany her there on 
his way to Baltimore, where he wished to enter 
the seminary where his brother had been educated 
for the priesthood, was very much disappointed to 
be obliged to remain at home, for his mother was 
still steadfast in her refusal to allow him to be- 
come a priest. For a year she turned a deaf ear 
to his request, and left nothing undone to bring 
him in the company of the girl she had chosen for 
his wife. She often found excuses to send him to 
Mr. Gibson’s on errands, ^knowing that he would 
meet Jessie, who being the only girl, was at home 
most of the time helping her mother, and when 
Jessie’s work was done she gave her a most 
hearty welcome at the farmhouse, inviting her to 
come very often. Dan, on the other hand, tried 


farmer carson’s sons. 


219 * 


to avoid her as much as possible. He never went 
to Mr. Gibson’s excepting when sent there by his 
mother, and he tried to be away from home when- 
ever Jessie was expected. Very soon after he 
learned of his mother’s intentions concerning her, 
he told her of his inclination to enter the life of a 
religious, and as she was a very pious girl, he 
asked her to pray for him, that his mother might 
not keep him waiting until he became of age. 
Jessie listened to him with joy, to think that her 
reserved young friend should confide his secret to- 
her, and promised to do all that she could to help 
him. 

The young man had been loth to speak of his. 
vocation to a girl who was nothing to him, but he 
felt bound to do it in order to prevent any mis- 
understanding between them, for he thought of 
what his mother had said concerning Jessie’s par- 
ents wishing to see them married, and he featfed 
that they might say something to her about it and 
lead her to care for him. God rewarded his good 
will in telling her, and made her the instrument 
which was to bring his happiness nearer, instead 
of taking it from him, as he had at first feared 
she might do. 

Jessie prayed most earnestly for. her young 
friend, and as she saw that his mother’s interest 




220 farmer carson’s sons. 

in her seemed to grow stronger each day, she re- 
solved to try to intercede for him. She never 
dreamed of the motive of that interest, and 
for Dan’s sake she did everything she could to 
please his mother. One day when they were 
alone she told her that she had heard that he in- 
tended to become a priest, and told her, too, how 
glad she was to know he had such noble 
thoughts and hoped he would not delay the pre- 
paration for his work much longer. Mrs Carson 
was disappointed, almost angered at this, but her 
own girls all being gone some time, her young 
neighbor had found too tender a spot in her heart 
for her to easily be offended by anything she said 
or did, and it was Jessie’s gentle persuasions that 
did more for Dan than anything else could have 
done. 

One day in August, as he was passing Mr. Gib- 
son’s on his way home from town, Dan was met 
at the gate by his friend, who said that she had 
been waiting for him to come home so as to tell 
him the good news she had. “But you must 
never let on that I have said a word to you about 
it, she said.” 

“What is it, Jessie?” he asked. 

Jessie lowered her voice about to a whisper and 
told him that she had called on his mother that 


farmer carson’s sons. 


221 


afternoon. She had been talking to her about his 
education, “ and, Dan,” she said, “I think if you 
would ask mother now she would not refuse to let 
you go to the seminary.” 

u Why do you think so, Jesssie ?” he asked, 
“ did she tell you so ?” 

“ No,” said Jessie, “ she did not tell me so, but 
I have talked to her about it so often that she 
really seemed interested in it, and to-day she said 
if she thought it w r as for your welfare and you 
could make as smart a man as your brother, 
Father Bristol, she would be glad to see you a 
priest. The way she spoke, I am certain she 
meant it. ” 

Dan knew his mother too well to think there 
could be anything in what his friend told him, but 
to-morrow he would speak to her about it and 
find out if she had changed her mind. Thanking 
Jessie for her interest in him, he bade her good 
afternoofl and walked home . . 

The next afternoon Dan was with his mother again 
asking her that oft-repeated question and hoping 
that Jessie’s prophecy would come true . At first 
she tried to change the subject as she often did, 
then argued with him and told him of the foolish- 
ness of his choice. Dan said little, but was stead- 
fast, and at length his mother said, “ My son, your 


222 


farmer carson’s sons. 


choice has caused a deep wound in your mother’s 
heart, but if you feel that God has called you to 
devote your life to His service in the Catholic 
priesthood, go and may His blessing be always- 
with you ” 

Dan could scarcely believe his ears, and he dared 
not trust himself to say very much or to remain 
with his mother longer, for fear that she might 
take back what she had said. “ Thank you, 
mother,” was all he trusted himself to say, and 
he hastened away to the village, going first to the 
church to offer a prayer of thanksgiving, then to 
his brother’s house to tell him the joyful news. 

The first of September our young friend bade 
good-bye to his home and friends, and accompanied 
by his brother, Edward, started for Baltimore, 
where in a few days his studies were to commence. 
His father was very proud when he bade him 
good-bye and wished him the greatest success in 
his undertaking ; his brothers and sisters regretted 
to see him go so far from home, but none except- 
ing Clara, who had come home to see him before 
he went, offered any objections to his choice. She 
seemed more grieved than even his mother and 
wept bitterly over him, while his mother, more in 
sympathy with her than on her own account, 
broke down entirely and said, ‘ ‘ Oh, my baby, I 


farmer carson’s sons. 


223 


cannot lot you go.” 

Dan kissed his mother and said, “ Do not feel 
so badly, mother, the day will come when you 
will be proud and happy to tell your friends that 
you have two sons who serve God in His holy 
sanctuary,” and with a bright smile, which she 
never forgot, he bade her farewell 


224 farmer carson’s sons. 


CHAPTEEVI. 

EIGHTEEN years of sunshine and sorrow have 
passed over the Carson farm-house since that 
Thanksgiving eve when our stcfry opened, and time 
has made some changes there. The father of the 
household is now a feeble old man, broken down by 
age and hard work on the farm, and he seldom 
crosses the threshold of his home, excepting on 
some of his best days when he is taken to Mass by 
his son, Frank, who is the only boy left at home, 
and who has promised to remain with his father as 
long as he lives. Frank, like all the rest of the 
family, excepting his mother and Clara, is a 
Catholic, and on pleasant Sundays the people of 
St. Ambrose Church always watched for him to 
come in with his aged father leaning on his arm. 
It was sad, too, to see the old man who could no 
longer read his once-loved prayer-book, sit in his 
pew saying his beads and trying to follow tke 
Mass said by a priest, whom he saw not, for Mr. 
Carson had been blind nearly six years. If his 
eyes were closed to the things of this earth, he 
bore his affliction bravely, being ever happy, and 
drawing great consolation from the practice of his 


FARMER C ARSON'S SONS. 


225 


religion, which occupied most of his thoughts. 

One great disappointment the Carson family 
had borne was the removal of Father Edward 
about eight years before to a parish over thirty 
miles from home, but he visits them quite often, 
and they, as well as nearly everyone else in the 
parish, are greatly attached to an old priest who has* 
taken his place. 

Clara is a widow now and has been living at home 
with her parents and two little daughters for some 
time. Her husband had died nine years ago after 
a long illness, during which their home in the 
west had to be mortgaged to pay the doctor’s bill ; 
after his death five of her eight children were 
taken from her and laid beside their father, then her 
home was lost, and with her two youngest children 
she had to go home, while her oldest son, a young 
man of seventeen, had gone to the far west with 
hopes of gaining a fortune and making a home for 
his mother. Success so far has crowned his 
efforts, and now, after live years spent in hard 
labor and the strictest economy, he has quite a 
large sum laid up toward buying the home, where 
he hopes to make the dear ones so far away as 
happy ns when his father was living, and he has 
resolved never to marry until he has first done 
what he calls his duty toward his mother and sis- 


226 


farmer carson’s sons. 


ters. 

Grace might be called the most fortunate one 
of the whole family, for her sweet voice has won 
for her widespread fame, both at home and abroad. 
After finishing in New York, she taught vocal 
music for three years then went to France to 
study under a noted vocalist, remaining there two 
years after which she made a short tour through 
the British Isles with a famous opera company, 
and, returning to New York, started out for her- 
self to win fame by her voice. Her first 
appearance oa the American stage was in one of 
New York’s most fashionable theatres, and the 
applause she won that night opened to her the 
road to a successful career. Her brother, Frank, 
and one of her older sisters, had met her on her 
arrival in this country, and with them as her only 
companions she made a tour through the northern 
and western states which lasted about seven 
months, then she went home to spend the summer. 

During her travels Grace had found many ar- 
dent admirers, both in the new world and the old, 
and she might have become a titled lady abroad, 
or the bride of an American millionaire, but 
wherever she went she never forgot Tommie Gib- 
son, to whom she had become engaged the summer 
after she graduated, and whose manly heart 


farmer carson’s sons. 


227 


was worth more to her than all the titles of Europe 
and all the wealth of Uncle Sam’s sons combined. 
Tommie was a promising young lawyer when 
Grace came home, having been admitted to the 
bar little over a year before, and he had come 
home to practice his profession in his native town. 

About three months after Grace’s return, they 
were married, and the wedding was one of the 

grandest events that had ever taken place in T ; 

many of Thomas’ old schoolmates and Grace’s 
friends from New York were present. A quiet 
reception was given to a few of the most intimate 
friends at the farmhouse, and after a short wed- 
ding trip, the newly married couple went to 
an eastern city, where they are now happily living 
in a very pleasant home. Grace's sister, who ac- 
companied her on her first tour through the 
country, is living with them and proves herself a 
most valuable companion, especially during the 
operatic tours that our friend takes each year and 
each appearance before the public adds new laurels 
to the fame of the great singer. Thomas always 
goes with her, too, and he is very proud of his 
talented wife. They both find much pleasure in 
their travels, but what they enjoy most is the 
pleasant summer sspent in their quiet home, and 
when the husband returns from his law office the 


228 


farmer carson’s sons. 


long hours spent in company with Grace and 
his dear little daughter are the happiest hours of 
the whole year, and Grace finds them so, too, for 
home is dearer to her than the public life she leads. 

Charlie is still living in Buffalo and is as happy 
with his wife as on their wedding day. Only one 
sorrow has crossed their path, and that was the 
death of Theresa’s brother, who had lost his life 
in a railroad accident when he was eighteen. His 
body had been brought home, mangled beyond 
recognition, and his sister has never quite recov- 
ered from the blow she received when the sad 
news came, but is more reconciled when she sees 
that her only child, a boy who bears his name, 
grows more like him every day. 

The youngest daughter of Mr. Carson became 
a Catholic about the time that Dan left home to 
go to the seminary, and little over a year later 
joined the Sisters of Charity, and we now find 
her in the ward of one of their hospitals, devoting 
her life to the service of God and his His suffer- 
ing creatures. All of her good works and prayers 
are offered up for one great object, the conversion 
of her mother and sister, Clara. 

But let us not forget Dan. Where is he now? 
The little family circle are in the parlor waiting 
for the return of Frank, who after his evening’s 


farmer carson’s sons. 229 

work was done, had gone to town to get the letter 
from the absent one that his father said he knew 
they would receive that day. Soon he was heard 
driving in the yard and without waiting to put up 
his horse he went in and gave the letter bearing a 
foreign postmark to his mother. It was from 
Dan, who had almost finished his theological 
studies at the American College in Rome. 

After finishing his preparatory course at the 
seminary, where his brother had been educated, 
Dan had enjoyed the privilege of being sent to the 
holy city to complete his education, and on the 
close of school he had sailed immediately for 
Europe. He had never been home since the day 
he bade his parents good-bye, over ten years ago, 
because he could not trust himself to meet his 
mother, whom he feared might regret having per- 
mitted him to leave her and would try to persuade 
him not to return to the seminary. The only 
member of the family he had seen was Grace, 
who had visited him in Rome before returning 
to her home, and he but seldom heard from 
home. The idea of becoming a Jesuit had been 
given up long ago, for he believed that he could 
do as much good as an earnest and devout secular 
priest; but his devotion to St. Aloysius was still as 
strong as it had been in his youth. He often vis- 


230 


farmer carson’s sons. 


and the places that had been hallowed by the 
presence of this holy youth, and on the first, 
twenty-first of June spent in Rome he enjoyed the 
pleasure of visiting the dingy little room which 
he who had been brought up in a princely palace 
had chosen for his resting place after a day spent 
in study and works of piety. 

In his letter Dan told that he had received the 
order of deacon, in a few weeks he expected to be 
ordained priest, and then he was coming home to 
say his first Mass. In the letter, he enclosed a 
photograph which had been taken a short time be- 
fore, and in which he wore his cassock and sur- 
plice. His mother said nothing when she saw it, 
but her face plainly told that she did not like it. 
When alone with Clara, she said that Dan had 
grown to be a very fine looking man since he 
went away, but it almost broke her heart to see 
his picture taken with those robes on. “It don’t 
look like my baby, ” she said, “and you don’t 
know how it grieves me to think that it is my 
own little Dan. ” With his father it was differ- 
ent ; Dan’s letter had to be read to him several 
times, until he had nearly learned the contents of 
it. He lamented very much that he could not see 
the picture, and asked numberless -questions about 
how Dan looked, then had the two put away 


farmer carson’s sons. 


231 


where he could find them at any time to show to 
everyone that came in. 

It was about the middle-of January when young 
Father Carson came home. Grace and Thomas, 
who had met him in New York, came with him to 
be present at his first Mass. On the day that he 
was expected, his father had insisted upon Frank’s 
going to the station to meet him long before the 
the train was due, for he feared that he might 
not get there in time if he did not start early, 
and before he had been gone hardly long enough to • 
drive to town and back, the old man took his 
place near the front door to listen for bis return, and 
to be the first one in the house to greet his boy. 
He knew well the sound of his own sleigh bells, 
and when after nearly two hours’ eager waiting 
he heard them in the distance, it was with diffi- 
culty that Clara could keep him from going out 
in the deep snow to meet them. The sleigh drove 
in the yard, and the next minute the young 
priest alighted from it and met his father in the 
open door. 

“Is this Dan? ” asked the old man, as he felt 
his son’s hand grasp his. 

“ Yes, father, it is I, ’’-answered Dan. 

“You are welcome home, ” said Mr. Carson, 
drawing him into the honse, and then laying his 


232 


farmer carson’s sons. 


hand on his head he said, “ You seem taller than 
when you went away and those that saw your 
picture tell me you are greatly changed for the 
better. If I could only look upon you once more, 
my dear boy, but I never shall, for you see that 
I am blind. ” 

Dan looked at his father, and noticed for the 
first time that there was a vacant stare in the 
eyes that had been fixed so lovingly upon him as 
he entered. The family had kept his father’s af- 
fliction a secret from him while he was away, and 
had intended telling him before he reached home, 
but the joy at meeting him had been so great, and 
they had become so accustomed to the old man’s 
present state that they had entirely forgotten that 
Dan did not know until now, when his father 
himself had told him. He looked inquiringly at 
his sister, who bowed her head, partly in shame, 
for having neglected to let him know it before and 
partly in affirmative of what her father had said, 
and he said, ‘‘Never mind, father, you can see 
me in Heaven and your vision will be brighter 
there for having lost your sight here . ” 

Dan was, indeed, greatly changed in appear- 
ance since he left home, and no one could have 
believed that this fall, handsome young priest 
was the same overgrown country lad who ten 


farmer carson’s sons. 233^ 

years ago had left his father’s farm to work in 
the vineyard of the Lord. He bore a strong re- 
semblance to his oldest brother, and in trying to . 
tell his father how he looked, the most accurate 
description they could give him, was to tell him 
that he was just what Eddie had been when he. 

first came to T . Mr. Carson was satisfied 

with this, for one of the brightest pictures left in 
his mind was of how his oldest son looked 
when he first saw him on the altar eighteen years 
ago. 

Among other callers who came to see Dan as 
soon as they heard he was home, was Mrs. Gib-., 
son and her daughter, Jessie, who was living at, 
home, while the other children were all married 
and gone, and who had always said she intended 
to be an old maid, and remain with her parents as 
long as they lived. Mrs. Carson had never quite 
given up the idea that her son was the cause of 
this, and still regretted that the life devoted to the . 
service of God had not been given instead to the 
young girl, who was as dear to her as one of her 
own children. Jessie greeted her old friend with 
a joyful smile, telling him how glad she was that 
he had become a priest at last, and asking him to, 
give herself and her mother his blessing. Father 
Carson gave it to both, thanking God that Jessie 


234 farmer carson’s sons. 

had helped to bring him to his present happy 
state, which, but for her, he might not have enjoyed 
for four long years yet, and he prayed that God’s 
choicest blessings might be hers for her kindness 
to him. Even as his hand was raised in benedic- 
tion over her, he caught a glance from his mother 
which caused him to shrink from her, but Jessie 
was too happy to notice it. She had always looked 
upon Dan Carson with the same interest that she 
had in her own brothers, and had once hoped to see 
one of them become a priest, but as neither of 
them did, she had from the time that Dan first in- 
trusted to her the secret of his vocation, prayed 
for him as she would one of them and looked for- 
ward to his ordination with just as much interest. 

On the first Sunday after he came home the 
young priest celebrated a solemn High Mass for 
the first time, his brother being deacon and the 
other Father Bristol, the priest whose father had 
adopted Father Edward from the orphan asylum, 
and who had taken a great deal of interest in Dan 
during the time spent in the preparatory semin- 
ary, was sub-deacon. 

Mr. Carson had not been able to leave the house 
for many weeks, and although the day was very 
cold and stormy, he insisted upon being taken to 
Mass and occupying the front seat, where he would 


FARMER CARSON’S SONS. 


235 


be near the altar. His wife was at his side, and 
while he listened with a sublime joy that made him 
compare the happiness of this day to the heavenly 
bliss he soon hoped to enjoy, she sat unmoved. 
He heard the sweet strains of the organ, mingled 
with over twenty voices, the sweetest and loudest of 
which was that of his daughter, Grace, then the 
voice of his young son fell upon his ears as he 
said the 4 4 Confiteor, ” and this was enough for 
him, while she heard the same; beheld the white- 
robed priests at the altar and saw the happy 
face of her two sons, her heart was still hardened. 

After the reading of the Epistle and Gospel, 
came the sermon, the text being taken from the 
gospel of the day : — k4 But about the eleventh 
hour he went out and found others standing ; and 
he saith to them : Why stand ye here all the day 
idle ? They to him : Because no man hath hired 
us. He saith to them : Go you also into my 
vineyard.” — (St. Matt, xx, 6-7.) Mrs. Carson 
gave an involuntary start as she heard the text, 
but she was soon so doeply interested in the ser- 
mon that she forgot all else. Dan had commenced 
in a mild, gentle tone, but gradually his voice 
deepened into an outburst of eloquence, and his 
words were such that he soon held the entire con- 
gregation spell-bound. His eloquence was far 


' 23 fe farmer carson’s sons. 

^greater than his brother’s had ever been ; in every 
sentence he showed a remarkable power of bending 
: at his will the minds of his hearers and he prom- 
ised to be one of the most eloquent of preachers. 

The most attentive listener present was his aged 
father, who saw in himself the picture of the 
workman who had been sent to the vineyard of the 
Lord at the eleventh hour. He thanked God 
again and again that he had been called, even at 
that late hour, to work for the salvation of his 
soul, and the tears falling from his sightless eyes 
•bathed his face with a dew of joy. His wife, too, 
had been touched, and Father Edward, who glanced 
-at her at the end of the sermon, was the first one 
to notice the change in her countenance. She 
kept her seat, watching closely every movement of 
tier son ; her eyes were fixed upon him at the con- 
secration while they were profoundly kneeling 
with bowed heads, but the sound of the bell on the 
altar, followed by the stroke of the large one in 
the tower, caused her to bow her head in rever- 
ence. She was impressed by a secret awe, but she 
knew not why. At the close of Mass, as her son 
turned to give the last blessing, she fell upon her 
knees for the first time, with her face raised toward 
the altar, and at that moment her eyes met his 
with a glance that told him her heart had been 


farmer carson's sons. 


237 


softened. The two brothers at the altar joined 
with glad hearts in the “ Te Deum sung by the 
entire congregation in honor of the occasion. 

That afternoon when Dan went home his mother 
embraced him affectionately, saying, “Do you 
remember what you said to me when you bade me 
good-bye as you were leaving home to go to the 
Seminary ?” 

“No, mother,” said the priest. 

“You told me,” said his mother, “that the 
time would come when I would be proud and 
happy to tell my friends that I had two sons who 
served God in His holy sanctuary, and my dear son 
that day has come. I am very proud of you both, 
and happy, too, because I sincerely believe that in 
your church is the true way to eternal life. 
Yours js, indeed, the true faith, and you two 
those well when you took upon yourselves to 
devote your lives to the defence of it, and now all 
that I ask is that you will receive me into your 
church, for outside of it I can never again find any 
happiness.” 

Father Carson could hardly repress his joy, but 
he only calmly answered his mother, that she 
must first be instructed in the teachings of the 
Catholic faith and then, if she still wished it, she 
might be received into the church. 


238 


■farmer carson’s sons. 


44 1 hope that time is not far oft*,’’ said h;s- 
mother, 4 4 for I feel that the eleventh hour spoken 
of in your text to-day has come for me and ere 
long my life will be over. I want to be prepared 
to die in the Catholic faith.'’ 

44 1 hope you will be well prepared, mother, 
when the time comes,” answered her son, 44 but we 
trust that you may yet be spared us for many 
years. ” 

Mrs. Carson was right, for one day less than 
three months later, her son, Father Dan, who had 
charge of a small parish in Eastern Pennsylvania, 
was alone in his room when a telegram was 
brought to him. k 4 Colne home, mother is dying, ” 
was all that it said, and Frank's name was signed 
to it. *In little over an hour he was on the train 
going home, and he reached there the next morn- 
ing. As he neared the home where all had been 
so happy when he left it only a few short weeks 
ago, a strange fear came over him that he might 
be too late, but he was not. 

Clara met him at the door and led him at once to 
the sick room, where he found not only his brothers* 
and sisters who lived near home, but those who 
had come from a distance, and they were all wait- 
ing for the last. His sister, Alice, now Sister 
Agatha, had come home from the hospital, accom- 


farmer carson's sons. 239 

panied by one of the other sisters, and she sup- 
ported her mother's head on her bosom, and 
Father Bristol was at her side ready to baptize his 
mother in case his brother, whom she wished to 
have administer that sacrement to her, did not 
come in time. 

Mrs. Carson had been taken suddenly ill three 
days before, and all but Dan had been sent for 
immediately, but as no serious danger was at first 
apprehended, they did not think it best to call him 
away from his parish, which was so far away, until 
the day before his mother was thought to be 
dying. Father Bristol would have baptized her 
then, but she said she wished Dan to do it, and she 
could not die until he came. Several times during 
the night she would rise as from a stupor and ask, 
“Has Dan come yet ?” but before they could answer 
she would sink back on her pillow. 

When Dan entered the room her face brightened 
and, extending her hand toward him, she said, “ I 
am so glad you have come ; I could not die with, 
out you — her voice faltered — please baptize me 
now, I am ready.” 

The young priest was overcome with grief, but 
there could be no delay, for his mother’s life was 
fast ebbing away. His brother had everything in 
readiness for the administration of the sacrament, 


*240 FARMER CARSON’S.. SONS. 

and he exercised a wonderful control over himself - 
as he gave it. His mother answered his questions in 8 
a weak but clear voice, and a happy light covered 
her face when it was over. One by one she badp 
her children and grandchildren good-bye and ask$d 
them to pray for her when she was gone. She 
held Clara’s hand longer than any of the others 
and her last words to her were, “ Remember* 
Clara, what I have told you.” To, Alice and the 
two priests she said, “ T^oq> tfyr.ee give me the 
greatest consolation I have in dying, and I thank 
God that you have chosen to .lead such holy lives.” 
The parting with her aged companion was the 
hardest to behold, but the grief at her loss was 
lessened by his joy at knowing that she had at last 
joined the true fold. With the cleansing water 
of holy baptism still moist on her brow, she 
yielded up her soul to her Creator. 

The two old people who had spent many years to- 
gether could not be separated long. One morning in 
May, when Frank went to his father’s room to help 
him dress, he did not greet him as usual, and 
going nearer to the bed he found that he was 
sleeping the peaceful slumber of death, and his 
eyes were open to behold the glories of another 
world. 

Clara did not forget what her mother, when 


FARMER CARSON 8 SONS 


241 


(lying, had told her to remember, and in a short 
time she was baptized with her two daughters, 
and they are now very sincere Catholics, but her 
son cannot be prevailed upon to give up the relig- 
ion in which she had brought him up, and, al- 
though he is everything his mother could wish of 
him in ever other respect, he shows little respect 
even for that creed, and he is the source of much 
anxiety to her. 


the end 

OF 

farmer carson’s sons 






>.;u wd u a & 





The Brown Curl. 


CHAPTER I. 

UNT LAURA MARKHAM was a great favorite 



1 x among the children of her brother, with 
whom she made her home, and they never seemed 
happier than when they were with her, while she 
found the greatest pleasure in the company of her 
little nieces and nephews. Although she had 
passed her fortieth birthday, the memory of her 
own youthful days was still fresh in her mind and 
she possessed those charming ways which win so 
many friends among the young. One of her 
greatest attractions was her art of story telling 
and the children spent many pleasant hours 
listening to the interesting tales which she never 
wearied of telling them, but what interested the 
girls most was to hear of her school days and 
some of the old friends whom she had known in 
the convent where she received her education, and 
whom she never forgot. 

It was a rainy Saturday afternoon in April and 


THE BROWN CURL. 


243 


Aunt Laura had gone to her room to put the 
things in order which her little six year old niece 
had scattered about that morning. She had nearly 
finished when, glancing up to the top shelf of her 
closet, her eyes rested on a small wooden box, and, 
wondering what its contents might be, she took it 
down. 

The box contained a few treasures which she 
had saved from those happy school days now sev- 
eral years passed, and as she took them out one 
by one and laid them on the table her thoughts 
wandered back to the time when they had been 
kept among her dearest treasures, and scarcely a 
week had passed without her looking them over, 
then she remembered how she had packed them 
away in this box when she was preparing to go 
away on a long visit some years ago and had put 
them away where they had long since been for- 
gotten. From this her thoughts went back to the 
days when they # had been collected, and in her 
mental vision she saw again many of the scenes 
of that time and the dear old friends she had 
loved at school were with her again . 

Just then a rap came to the door, and without 
raising her eyes from the table she said, “ Come 
in,” knowing that it was one of her brother’s 
children. 


244 


THE BROWN CURL. 


The door opened and a girl of about fourteen 
entered. “Oh, it’s you, Clara, I am glad you 
have come,” said her aunt smiling, for this was 
her favorite among the children . 

“Yes, auntie,” said the girl, “it is so dreary 
this afternoon, I thought you must be lonesome, 
so I have come up to spend the afternoon with 
you.” 

“Thank you, dear,” said Aunt Laura, “ I do 
not know what I should do during your mother’s 
absence if it were not for you. It is so lonely 
without her, but she will be home Monday, and I 
think we can keep each other company until her 
return.” 

Clara was about to answer when her eyes fell 
upon a dark brown tress which lay on the table. 
“ What a beautiful curl,” she exclaimed, holding 
it up and looking at it admiringly. 

“Very beautiful,” answered Aunt Laura, “but 
not any more beautiful than 4he girl who once 
wore it.” 

“Who was she?” asked Clara. “Please de- 
scribe her to me and tell me all about her.” 

“Her name was Melissa Chambers,” said Aunt 
Laura. 

“Melissa,” repeated Clara, “what a pretty 
name, though so odd.” 


THE BROWN CURL. 


245 


4 ‘Yes,” said Aunt Laura, “I always admired 
the name, but you wanted me to tell you about 
the girL I first met her at the Academy of St. 
in Detroit, when I was fifteen. She com- 
menced school there in the beginning of the fall 
term and for the first few weeks was a day scholar, 
while i was a boarder, but about the middle of 
October her mother, a widow, was obliged on ac- 
count of poor health to break up housekeeping 
and go to a hotel to board, while Melissa, her only 
child, came to board at the Academy. 

“Although three years younger than myself, 
Melissa soon became one of my dearest friends, 
and she was with me more than with those of her 
own age. I soon learned that she had a most 
loving disposition and was one of the sweetest 
girls I ever knew, but, poor Melissa, she was al- 
most a spoiled child, and I hope she will forgive 
me now if I say she had one fault for which I can 
hardly blame her when I think of her as she was 
then. She was very fond of looking in her mir- 
ror, and too well pleased with the picture she saw 
there . It was the picture of a fair, childish face, 
with light blue eyes, which contrasted most beau- 
tifully with her long brown curls. Poor child, 
she knew she was pretty and she wished others to 
think so too. 


246 


THE BROWN CURL. 


‘ 4 Her mother often took her away to spend 
Saturday or Sunday with her, and it was on her 
return from one of these visits, which she made 
about the middle of April, after she came to the 
academy to board, that she complained of feeling 
slightly ill. When we were about to retire she 
told me tohat in the morning she called on a little 
girl who was sick, but as the doctor had not ar- 
rived before she left her, she did not know what 
was the matter. 

“We had a private room together that term, 
and, although, I did not fully realize it then, I 
have often thought since that it was very fortunate 
we did, for in the morning Melissa had a fever 
and was quite ill. I called in the mistress of 
boarders, and when she saw how bad Melissa was, 
she sent immediately for a physician who, when 
he came, said that she had the scarlet fever. Had 
she been in one of the dormitories it would prob- 
ably have spread through the whole boarding 
school. I had had the fever when I was quite small, 
so there was no fear for me. 

“The dormitories and nearly all the rooms 
used by the* boarders were in the southern part of 
the building, while the infirmary was on the 
upper floor of the north wing. It was t here that 
Meilss was taken and I begged to be al- 


THE BROWN CURL. *247 

lowed to remain with her, at least part of the 
time, but the Sisters objected to this, saying 
that my studies could not be neglected and if I 
went to my classes after visiting her, I would be 
exposing my. classmates to the fever. As it was 
now, I was obliged to keep away from the other 
girls for two days, but on the third day I was with 
them and in my classes again. 

“ For five days I only heard from Melissa 
through the Sisters, and each day her condition 
was reported as worse. I could not study or 
think of anything but my little friend, whom I 
feared would die without my seeing her again. 
Often during study hour I found myself so deeply 
buried in thoughts of Melissa that I almost for- 
got where I was, and when called on to recite I 
could hardly answer a question. I would dream 
of her at night and awake with a start as if some 
one were at my bedside telling me she was dying. 

“I could endure the suspense of being kept 
from my dear friend no longer, for I felt that she 
would certainly die and I must be with her, and 
on Saturday morning I went to my room, as usual, 
after breakfast, to put my things in order. This 
I did very quickly, and while the mistress of the 
boarders was in the dormitory, I stole quietly up 
stairs to the infirmary. I looked around to see 


248 


THE BROWN CURL. 


that no one saw me, then pushed the door open T 
and going in closed it carefully behind me. The 
nurse had gone out and left Melissa asleep, but 
she awoke when I entered. 

“Oh, Laura, ” she said when she saw me, “ I 
am so glad to see you — I was so lonesome with- 
out you and told the Sisters I wanted to see you, 
but they said you did not have time to leave your 
studies. Why did you stay away from me so 
long ? 

“I bent over her and throwing her arms around 
my neck she kissed me, then told me to sit down 
and remain with her until the nurse returned, but 
I did not dare to do this, as I must get back to 
my room before I was found out. 

“How I wish you could remain with me until 
I am better,” she said. “The time would not 
seem half so long if you were here, for you could 
read to me and tell me stories . The nurse is so 
quiet I don’t like to have to be alone with her all 
of the time and you know mamma cannot be here 
very much, so it is very lonesome.” 

4 ‘At that moment I heard a footstep in the hall 
and my first inclination was to hide but that would 
be of no use. The door opened and I looked up 
expecting to see the nurse, but instead it was 
Sister Superior and the doctor. Sister looked a t 


THE BROWN CURL. 249 

me very sternly and said, ‘ ‘Laura, why are you 
here ? Who gave you permission to come ?” 

4 4 1 hardly knew what to say after having been 
so strictly forbidden to come to this room, for 
fear of exposing the others to the fever, and only 
now it (occurred to me how rash I had been in 
thinking of returning to them without having it 
known. 4 1 hope you will pardon me, Sister,’ 
I said ‘for disobeying you; but I could not re- 
main away from Melissa any longer.’ Then 
growing bolder and, I think, hardly realizing 
what I was saying, I continued, ‘ ‘ As much as I 
prize the time spent in school, I rather give up 
my studies than be kept from her when she is so 
very ill.’ 

‘ ‘ Please, Sister, let Laura remain with me. ’ 
said Melissa, ‘for I am so lonely without her;’ 
but Sister objected, saying that 1 could not lose 
the time . 

“Tears filled her eyes and she said pleadingly, 

‘ Please, Sister, do not send her away from me, ’ 
but it seemed to be of no use for one look from 
Sister was enough and I started to go out. The 
doctor told me to wait a few minutes in the hall, 
so I walked down to a window at the end of the 
hall and waited for them to come out. I .had 
noticed that he looked very much troubled when 


250 


THE BROWN CURL. 


lie saw Melissa and this made it harder for me to 
think of being separated from her, even though I 
-could hear from her every day. I might as well 
have been in a distant part of the city as in the 
same building with her when I could not see her. 

“For some minutes the doctor and Sister Su- 
perior stood a little distance from me, talking in a 
low tone. I heard him say that Melissa’s condi- 
tion was worse than yesterday and he looked very 
grave as he added that there was some doubt as 
to her recovery. My heart sank within me and 
it was with difficulty I kept from betraying 
that I was listening, but I felt happier when I 
heard him say that if Melissa insisted upon hav- 
ing me remain with her, it would be better for me 
to do so for a few days, at least, even if I did 
have to give up my studies for a while. I felt 
like thanking him for his kindness, but I dared 
not. Sister rather reluctantly consented and from 
that time until my little friend was able to sit up 
I scarcely left the infirmary either night or day. 
I occupied a little cot next to Melissa’s bed and 
in the night I was always awake at the slighest 
sound she made. I often marvel now how my 
strength held out so well when I lost so much rest, 
but I .kept up and felt none the worse for it. 

u The first night and several days following, she 


THE BROWN CURE. 


251 


was so much worse that nearly all hope for her 
life had been abandoned. She was prepared for 
death on the second day, and no one can know the 
grief that I felt as with the nurse and her mother 
I watched over her — waiting for the end and un- 
willing to part with her. I almost felt then that 
her mother could not feel much more grieved than 
1 did. Part of the time she was in a sort of de- 
lirium and seemed to recognize no one. I felt 
that I was in the way at these times, and would 
have left the room, but even then she seemed to 
miss me if I were not at her bedside. When at 
the end of the fifth day a slight change for the 
better came and the dear little invalid was pro- 
nounced almost out of danger, I believe that no 
one but her own mother could have been as happy 
as I. and even she could not have been more so. ” 

Aunt L mra glanced again at the brown curl- 
and continued: “It was during this sickness 

that Melissa’s hair was cut off. I was with her 
when it was done and it grieved me sorely to see 
how bitterly she wept for the loss of her curls, 
for she said she would not be half as pretty when 
they were gone. We tried to console her by tell- 
ing her that her hair would soon grow out 
thicker and prettier than before, but she would 
not listen to us. 4 \ know I shall look so ugly 


252 


THE BROWN CURL. 


without them,’ she said, ‘and it will be so long 
before they grow again. ’ I noticed that after she 
returned to her room she avoided looking in her 
mirror for several weeks and then my proud little 
lady began to grow quite conceited over her short 
curls that were not so unbecoming, after all. 
When she looked at them she would sometimes 
laughingly call herself her ‘mama’s boy.’ Her 
mother kept all of the shorn curls excepting this 
one, which Melissa said I should keep to remem- 
ber her by. 

“ It was about three weeks before Melissa was 
able to sit up for any length of time or leave the 
infirmary, and she was only a mere shadoAv of 
that rosy-cheeked girl of so short a time ago, but 
she regained her strength quite rapidly. When 
she was again in her classes, her companions wel- 
comed her as though she had been absent for 
months. I think I myself seemed little less a 
stranger to the girls. I was able to resume my 
studies with my class for I had had all of my 
books with me during Melissa’s illness and by 
studying while she was asleep had not missed a 
lesson, which fully satisfied my teachers for the 
time they had worried about my losing. 

*‘ After this we two were more attached to each 
other than ever, and Melissa often said that she 


THE BROWN CURL. 


253 


feared that she would never have recovered had it 
not been for my kindness to her, but this, of 
course, was all imagination on her part. As 
the close of school drew near, we began to wish 
that it were farther off, for as I lived in central 
New York and Melissa in Detroit, we did not ex- 
pect to meet again until school re-opened in the 
fall, and what a long time it seemed to us chil- 
dren, who, although entire strangers only a year 
ago, seemed more like own sisters now. I invited 
her to come home with me for a few weeks, but 
her mother thought she could not spare her after 
being separated from her all the year. 

“The day of parting came and it was even 
harder for us both than we had anticipated. I had 
hardly realized until that day what a sisterly at- 
tachment had sprung up between us. Many 
loving good-byes were exchanged and with a prom- 
ise from me to write as soon as 1 reached home, 
we parted at the front door of the Academy. I 
shall never forget how sweet Melissa looked that 
morning, when about half way down theswalk, I 
turned around hoping to get another glimpse of 
her. She was standing on the veranda, watching 
me out of sight, robed in a white dress and her 
head covered with short brown curls, while her 
face was still almost as colorless as her dress. There 


254 


THE BROWN CURL. 


were tears in her eyes as she waved me a last fare- 
well, but she smiled and tried to hide them. What 
a pretty picture of childish innocence and simplic- 
ity she was. That is the picture of my Melissa 
which remains with me until this day as the most 
perfect picture of her. Although it has been over 
twenty years since that day, I can almost see her 
now. I did not dream how long it would be ere 
we would meet again, and how changed she would 
be from that fair child who looked more like a 
spirit from the other world. 

Each week for the first seven weeks brought a 
letter, and sometimes two from Melissa. Long, 
affectionate letters they were, and in each she- 
spoke of the time we would be together again. 
The last three weeks of the vacation I spent with 
friends in the country some distance from home, 
and as I visited different places I could not have 
my mail sent to me, so I did not get any until 
my return home the latter part of the first week 
of September* 

Among other letters which had been received 
during my absence was one from Melissa written 
the day after I left home. It said that her mother 
had decided upon taking her to New York to be 
educated, but she did not know when they would 
go. Another letter from her, dated two weeks- 


THE BROWN CURL 


255 


later, spoke of her first letter which was still un- 
answered, and which she thought might have 
been lost in the mails. Her closing words were, 
‘I shall be at the academy the day school opens, 
and I hope you will be there, as we will probably 
start- the next day and I wish to see you before 
I go. ’ I could see in both letters that Melissa 
greatly regretted leaving our school. She said 
that she did not wish to go among strangers and 
be obliged to make new friends, when she was 
leaving so many behind her, but her mother 
thought it would be better for her to attend the 
school she had selected for her in New York, as it 
might give her the chance of an entrance into bet- 
ter society after her school days were over. I 
hardly knew why it was, but I shed many tears 
over these letters, and I thought her mother was 
very imprudent in taking her from the school 
where she had been so happy. 

School had opened two days before I reached 
home, and Melissa had undoubtedly left the city 
before this. Had I known it in time, I would 
have written to her to stop at our home on her 
way. I tried to content myself with the thought 
that she might possibly have been delayed for a 
few days and I might see her, but when two days 
after receiving the letter I was again in school, I 


256 


THE BROWN CURL. 


found her gone. 

“ Melissa had called at the academy the day 
school opened, again the next day and just before 
her departure the third day, hoping to see me. 
The girls, with whom she had left many messages 
for me, gathered around me and told me that she 
had been both puzzled and disappointed because 
I had neither written to her nor returned in time 
to see her. She was certain that I had received 
one of her letters, if not both, and she thought 
that she might have offended me, but did not 
know how. I obtained her address from one of 
the girls and wrote her a long letter that evening, 
explaining everything. 

“ An answer soon came, and for the next two 
years, until I graduated, we kept up a regular 
correspondence, but did not see each other during 
that time. Some of Melissa’s letters were long 
and affectionate, while others were only short 
notes, and in these, which were not less friendly, 
she said that she was kept so busy with her studies 
that she found little time to devote to her corres- 
pondence. I imagined that there was a touch of 
sadness in many of her missives. Although she 
liked her new school very much, she did not seem 
contented there, as she had at our academy, but 
she would not mention this to her mother, who 


THE BROWN CURL. 


257 


thought that she was now in a school that was bet- 
ter suited to her than ours. More than once she 
had told me in her letters that it seemed more like 
home to her in Detroit, and she would like to re- 
turn to finish her education in the school where 
she had commenced it. 

“ Immediately after I graduated I went to Eu- 
rope with my parents, and remained there a year 
and a half. While in New York, before we 
sailed, I called at the academy where Melissa had 
been, but the Sisters told me that at the close of 
school she had left the city with her mother. They 
did not know where they had gone, but they gave 
me the address of some of her mother’s friends, who 
they thought could tell me. I called on them, but 
received no definite information, the only thing I 
could learn, being that they had gone west to 
spend the summer. They were expecting a letter 
from her mother and promised to send me her ad- 
dress as soon as they received it, but they failed to 
do so. On my return to New York I again tried to 
find my friend, but fate seemed to have separated 
us. I learned from the Sisters that she had returned 
to their academy a short time after my departure, 
but had remained there only a year, and leaving 
at the close of school, nearly six months before, 
had left the city and had not been heard from 


258 


THE BROWN CURL. 


since. All inquiries made of her friends proved 
almost as fruitless, for no one seemed to know of 
her whereabonts. I watched each mail for sev- 
eral months, hoping that I might hear from her, 
but it seemed as if I, whom she had once loved so 
much, had been forgotten, and perhaps new 
friends shared my place in her affections. 


THE BROWN CURL. 


259 


CHAPTERII. 

66 AFTER my European visit I remained at 
home four years, until I accepted an invi- 
tation from an old schoolmate, who was married 
to a wealthy lawyer and now lived in Brooklyn, 
to spend the winter at her home. The lady 
moved in the most fashionable circles in the city, 
received a great deal of company and went a great 
deal. As her guest, I was always with her when- 
ever society called upon her for homage, so I 
naturally became well acquainted with its whims 
and the names of its greatest favorities. It was 
from one of my friend’s callers, whom I met the 
day after my arrival at her home, that I heard of a 
Miss Chambers, a young lady from the west, who 
was visiting in the city and was about to make 
her first appearance in society that season. They 
did not know the name of the place she came 
from. By their conversation I saw at once that 
she was to be a great favorite. They said that 
she was an orphan with no near relatives and was 
very beautiful. 

“Can it be Melissa? I thought. She was 


260 


THE BROWN CURL. 


about the same age as the one they had mentioned, 
and if she were beautiful when a child she must 
be much more so now, for her beauty had been of 
the kind that promised to increase with the ap- 
proach of womanhood, but was her mother dead ? 
This I resolved to find out, and if she were only 
my dear old friend, how much would I not give 
to see her once more* Then I thought, had that 
conceit which had been so strong in her on ac- 
count of her beauty when a child, been increased 
by the flatteries I knew she must be receiving, so 
that she would no longer care for her old school 
friends? True, she had neglected even sending 
me a line of friendship for several years, but I 
could not believe that my Melissa had entirely 
forgotten me. The opportunity for me to see 
her presented itself sooner than I had expected. 

4 ‘ About an hour after the callers departed, I 
was in my room, thinking of Melissa, when the 
tea bell rang, and I went down to join the family. 
After tea they told me that they wished me to be 
ready in an hour to go to the theatre. It was the 
first play I attended in the city, and also a 
great European actress’ first appearance on the 
American stage. So interested in it was I that I 
entirely forgot my old friend. 

‘ 4 Just before the play commenced a party of 


THE BROWN CURL. 


261 


young people entered the box directly opposite us. 
My attention was particularly attracted by one of 
them, a girl of about nineteen or twenty. She 
seemed to bear a resemblance to someone 1 had 
seen before, but I could not then recall who. 
All I knew was that she was exceedingly beautiful, 
and by the occasional admiring glances favored 
her by different members of the party, especially 
a young gentleman at her side, who appeared to 
be a foreigner and who was probably her escort, I 
soon became aware that I was not alone in my be- 
lief. Her’s was a face of the most striking 
beauty, and one when once seen not easily to be 
forgotten. Her complexion was very fair and her 
her cheeks rosy, but I could not distinguish 
whether her eyes were light or dark, but in the 
brilliant light of the hall I thought they were 
dark. Her luxuriant brown hair was done up 
quite high to meet a small turbin ; a deep red 
opera cloak, trimmed with ermine, was thrown 
over the back of her chair, and she wore a dress 
of the same deep hue, which added greatly to her 
personal charms . 

4 4 1 watched her for a few minutes, then asked 
one of my companions who she was, but they said 
that she must be a stranger, as they had never 
seen her before. The curtain rose at that 


262 


THE BROWN CURL. 


moment and I soon became so absorbed in the play 
that I forgot the young lady until, alone in my 
room that night, I found myself wondering who 
she was and whether I would ever have the good 
fortune to see her again, which I hoped I 
would. I fell asleep, thinking of her, and her 
sweet face appeared in my dreams many times 
during the night. 

u Four days passed and I learned nothing of the 
young lady, neither did I hear anything more of 
Melissa. Strange to say, I had never once 
thought of associating these two until the even- 
ing of the fourth day I attended a grand ball 
given in honor of a young English nobleman who, 
after spending the autumn traveling in the south 
and west, had come to New York for a few months 
before returning home. I had never met him and 
was, therefore, much surprised when, on being in- 
troduced to him, I saw that he was the same one 
who had been at the theatre with the heroine of 
my thoughts. She was here, of course, and how 
fair she looked. She wore a plain white silk and 
not a single jewel but, despite the plainness of her 
apparel, there was not one of the beautifully dressed 
belles with their glittering jewels who could com- 
pete with her. I noticed that the young nobleman 
to-night, as when 1 saw them before, seemed to 


THE BROWN CURL. 


263 


notice none of those gay ladies who were trying to 
be as agreeable as possible when he was in sight, 
but his eyes seemed to follow her wherever she 
went, while she, like an innocent child, paid no 
more heed to him than courtesy demanded, for she 
was blind to his admiration. Others also tried to 
pay her homage, but I could plainly see that she 
cared little for any of them. 

“ I watched her for some time, vainly hoping 
for an introduction to her, and would have asked 
the hostess for one, but surrounded as she was by 
so many admirers who would claim her now for a 
dance and then for a little conversation, it seemed 
impossible for a stranger to even hope for a word 
with her. Once 1 passed near enough to her to 
see that there was an almost tearful sadness in her 
soft blue eye, and I stopped for a moment to look 
at her, for that face seemed a little familiar, but 
the next I was hurried away to take my place in a 
set which was just forming on. As my friend 
with whom I came was not feeling very well that 
evening, we went home quite early, and I was very 
much disappointed to think that I had not met her, 
who akove all the others, I fished most to receive an 
introduction to, and had not even heard her name 
mentioned. 

‘ 4 My friend was quite ill for the next three or 


264 


THE BROWN CURL. 


four days, and in my thoughts of her I again forgot 
that mysterious beauty, until about a week and a 
half after the ball when we went out together for 
the first time to attend an afternoon tea. We were 
in the dressing room taking off our wraps when two 
ladies entered; one middle-aged who, had there 
been any resemblance between them, might have 
passed for the mother of her companion, in whom 
she appeared to feel a deep interest ; the other I 
recognized at a glance to be my heroine. 

“The girl did not notice me, so 1 had a better 
chance to scan her face, and I made a happy dis- 
covery. It was her bright blue eyes and dark 
brown, alifiost black hair, that attracted my notice 
now, for I knew that they could belong to only one 
person in the world. It must be Melissa, and just 
then I heard some one address her as Miss Cham- 
bers. I was right in my supposition, and oh !. 
how happy I was to know it. Although she was 
far more beautiful than when I last saw her, I 
could not have failed to recognize her now, and 
marvelled that I did not know her at the ball. I 
looked at her, thought of the two last occasions 
when I had seen her, without knowing her, then 
of the little girl who had waived me a farewell 
from the door of the convent, and I hardly knew 
why it was, but how 1 wished her back where she 


THE BROWN CURL. 


265 


was then. 

“I could not wait for an introduction, so I 
stepped up to her and said, 4 Pardon me, but isn’t 
this Miss Melissa Chambers ?’ The girl turned to 
me and in a low musical voice, which had greatly 
changed since I had last heard her speak, she an- 
swered that that was her name; then after studying^ 
my face for a moment added, 4 Haven’t we met 
somewhere before? Your face is familiar but I 
cannot recall you.’ 

“‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘we met at St. 

Academy in Detroit. Do you not remember your 
old friend and schoolmate, Laura Markham ?’ I 
asked. 

“An expression of mingled joy and surprise 
covered her face, as grasping my hand firmly she 
said, “ Remember Laura Markham, will I ever 
forget her? and is it true that you are really lpy 
dear old friend from whom I have not heard in so 
long ?’ — Her tone was more familiar now. — ‘I am 
so glad to meet you once more.’ 

“That afternoon was one of the most enjoya- 
ble ones I spent in the city, for Melissa was with 
me most of the time when not devoting her atten- 
tions to the lady with whom she came and to whom 
she seemed greatly attached. As I watched her 
and listened to her conversation, she seemed to 


‘266 


THE BROWN CURL. 


grow more and more like the Melissa of other 
days, but I could not help feeling a little grieved 
to notice that she still retained one trait of her 
childhood which had grown stronger with her 
years. She had paused a moment too long at the 
mirror to fix a stray curl which would fall over 
her brow, and she would not leave the dressing 
room until she saw that every fold of her dress 
hung perfectly, then with an air of pride she had 
gone down to the drawing room escorted by the 
lady who acted as her guardian. 

“ Before we separated Melissa promised to 
spend the^next afternoon with me. My hostess 
having been invited out, I was alone when she 
came; so we had a good opportunity to talk over 
all that had happened since we last met. 

u Melissa told me how she had spent the past 
few years since I had heard from her. Leaving 
New York with her mother, about a week before 
the time I had tried to find her previous to my de- 
parture for Europe, she went to Indiana for the 
summer, and in the fall returned to school, as the 
;Sisters had informed me the second time I called 
on them. Her intention had been to remain there 
until she finished, but her mother’s health being 
very poor the next spring, her physician recom- 
mended a change of climate. Accordingly as 


THE BROWN CURL. 


267 - 


soon as school closed they again went west and 
would have returned at the opening of the fall term 
but the physicians advised her mother not to go back 
and she would not go without her; so the next year 
found her in a fashionable academy in Chicago- 
while her mother was in a little town a few miles out 
of the city and they saw each other once a week 
or oftener. 


4 ‘At first the climate seemed to help her mother 
and she was much stronger than she had been for 
several years but she caught a severe cold after 
she had been there a little over a year which 
caused pneumonia and she never fully recovered 
from the effects of it. When Melissa was nearly 
seventeen, about a year before she was to finish in 
school, her mother was taken very ill and for a sec- 
ond time she left school to be with her. They 
had expected to cross the ocean for her health that 
summer, but they had to postpone the trip now 
and intended going in the fail, but the invalid had 
reached the last stages of that dread disease con- 
sumption, and no medical skill was of any avail to 
her now. Melissa wept bitterly when she reached 
this part of the story and it was only amid sobs 
that she told how on the twentieth of August, just 
ten weeks from the day that her mother was taken 
sick, she died. 


‘268 


THE BROWN CURL. 


“She was left alone in the world with neither a 
home or a relative to care for her, but fortunately 
she had a small fortune which rendered her inde- 
pendent and the Sisters were very kind to her. 
Although she missed her mother very much, she 
hardly realized her lonely and homeless condition 
until she graduated the next J une, and when her 
classmates were returning to their pleasant homes 
she was very much grieved to know that she had 
none to go to. About two weeks later she went 
to Detroit to visit friends and intended making 
her home at the academy where we had first met. 
She remained there little over a year and then her 
mother’s old friend, with whom she was staying 
now, hearing of her lonely condition, came to De- 
troit and asked her to accompany her to Europe. 
She accepted the invitation, more because her own 
health was not very good (and the Sisters advised 
the trip) than because she cared to leave the place 
which as in her childhood had seemed like home 
to her. 

“They were gone six months and on their re- 
turn the lady wished her to remain at her home 
but she felt too independent to accept any further 
kindness from her, so she went back to her old school, 
feeling that although she had no home, she had 
found one who would be a mother to her. Al- 


THE BROWN CURL. 


26 £> 


most weekly letters came from her friend and in 
many of them she said she would be pleased to 
have her visit her at any time, but none of the in- 
vitations were accepted until September, when she 
received a very pressing one to spend the winter 
with her. 

u She had been in the city about five weeks whea 
I first saw her at the theatre, and the young people 
she was with then were very intimate friends of 
her hostess. In her youth this lady had been a 
very brilliant member of society, but since the 
death of her husband, five years before, she had 
went yery little until Melissa came, and she re- 
entered the social ranks in order to introduce her 
young friend into them, and in so doing she felt 
that she was carrying out the designs of her old 
friend, Melissa’s mother. 

u After this we spent much of our time together 
and we often met at fashionable gatherings. On 
all of these occasions I noticed that Melissa’s 
beauty, together with her gracefulness and simple 
but beautiful style of dress, attracted much atten- 
tion. She never wore jewels of any kind, and the 
reason was that she did not think it would be 
proper for her after so lately taking off mourning 
for her mother, but she spent a great deal of time 
studying the effects of different styles, and I knew 


270 


THE BROWN CURL. 


that what I had suspected of her was true. She 
was indeed the same vain child that she had been 
years ago. If she had felt that she was pretty 
then, she felt it much more now, and the many 
flatteries she received strengthened this feeling. 
This was her only failing, and how sorry I felt for 
her, for I felt that her conceit might sometime 
bring her to grief. Despite of her apparent 
light-heartedness, I could almost see at times that 
she was not quite contented in the place she occu- 
pied now, and I thought she would have been bet- 
ter off had she remained within the quiet walls of 
the convent, where she would ever be free from the 
sorrows as vTell as the gaieties of social life; but 
after a time this seemed to die away and she was 
as happy as a bird. 

4 4 Nearly everywhere I met her, when at a 
party, I noticed that the young English nobleman, 
whom I have mentioned before, was the most 
ardent of her admirers, and I soon began to doubt 
as to her being wholly unconscious of his admir- 
ation, though she never spoke of him as any more 
than a friend, and seemed to care no more for him 
than she did for any of her other acquaintances, while 
even I who, besides the lady who had taken her 
mother’s place, was her only confident, would not 
mention so delicate a matter to her, or even let her 


THE BROWN CURL. 


271 


suspect that I noticed it. However, I hoped that 
he would prove worthy of my orphan friend and 
would take her to his home as his bride. For 
poor Melissa, how desolate she must be to know 
that she had no home. 

“It was daring the Christmas holidays that 
Melissa called on me one day, her face aglow with 
smiles, and said she had a secret for me. At the 
same time she held up her hand, on which glit- 
tered an elegant solitaire diamond ring, and said, 

4 Isn’t it beautiful, Laura ? It is one of my 
Christmas presents and the first jewel I have ever 
worn.’ 

“I examined the ring, and as far as my in- 
experienced eye could judge, I thought it was the 
finest stone I had ever seen. 4 Who was so kind as 
to give you such an elegant present ? I asked . ’ 

4 4 She smiled, her face crimsoned a little, and I 
thought I had never seen her look so beautiful as 
when she answered, 4 It is my secret and you will 
keep it for me V 

4 4 4 Certainly, Melissa,’ I answered, 4 did you 
ever know me to betray anything you have told 
me ? ’ and I guessed the truth before I heard it 
from her lips. 

4 4 4 Laura, you have ever been my truest friend, 
she said, 4 and I want you to be the first one to 


272 


THE BROWN CURL. 


know of my engagement. Lord Montrose has 
asked me to marry him, and this is my engage- 
ment ring.’ 

“ 4 Is that so, Melissa ? ’ I said, 4 for your sake 
I am very happy to hear of it. ’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘ it was only the day be- 
fore Christmas he asked me, and it was so sudden, 
I had never dreamed of such a thing, but when I 
thought what a noble family he belongs to and 
what a beautiful home he has, — while I, who am 
I but a lone orphan — I accepted him.’ 

‘ I hope it will bring you happiness, Melissa’, 
I said. 

u I know I shall be happy,’ she answered, 4 and 
only think I shall be Lady Montrose and the mis- 
tress of one of the grandest private palaces in 
England. I never told you that I saw his home 
several times while I was in England, a year ago. 
The house is perfectly grand and the extensive 
park and grounds adjoining it are like a perfect 
fairy land. The master of the house was not at 
home then, but I heard a great deal about him ; so 
I know well who he is, but oh ! Laura, who would 
ever have dreamed that I was to be the future mis- 
tress of that grand estate ? It seems more like the 
fairy tales you used to tell me when I was sick, 
than a reality.’ 




THE BROWN CURL. 


273 


i4 Melissa was indeed very happy now, and for 
a long time she talked of her engagement and the 
beautiful home on the other side of the Atlantic 
which was to be hers. More than once she told how 
surprised she was to think that the young foreigner 
should care for her, who was poor and unknown, 
when he might so easily have won the hand of some 
grand and wealthy lady of his own rank and 
nationality. This American girl did not know 
that it was her extreme beauty that attracted his ad- 
miration more than all the noble blood of England, 
and the first time he saw her be determined to win 
her and to take her home with him as his bride. 

‘ 4 In the spring their engagement was announced, 
and I was just preparing to leave the city when I 
learned that the wedding was to take place the fol- 
lowing August or September. Melissa intended 
spending a few weeks at the sea shore with her 
hostess, and on their return was to remain with 
her until she was married. The wedding was to 
be a very quiet affair, the majority of Melissa’s 
friends only being present at the church, and a 
very few of the most intimate ones sharing the 
wedding breakfast at the house. After a short 
visit to Detroit, where my friend was to pay a 
farewell visit to the home of her childhood and the 
graves of her parents, they were to sail for Eng- 


274 


THE BROWN CURL. 


land. 

4 4 It was only a week after the engagement was 
announced thas Lord Montrose was unexpectedly 
called home on account of the serious illness of his 
mother. He sailed the day that he received the 
message, but he was too late, for she was dead be- 
fore he reached her. Left an orphan now, with 
only one younger sister who was not yet of age, he 
was kept at home several months, and consequently 
Ihe wedding had to be postponed. 

• 4 4 Melissa went to the sea shore for a while, but 
/growing tired of the gay life there, which without 
the presence of the one who was to be her hus- 
band, soon grew rather dull, she came to visit me 
.and remained until after Christmas, when she again 
went to Brooklyn. In the meantime nearly every 
mail from England brought a letter from the 
absent one. She did not know when the wedding 
was to take place until about two weeks before her 
^return to the city, when she received word that 
\ie expected to be at liberty to come in the spring, 
and she was to gather her bridal roses early in 
June. 

“ At times, while at my home, she had seemed 
very happy at the thought of her approaching 
marriage, and would talk for hours of the beautiful 
home across the sea and all the pleasures in store 


THE BROWN CURL. 


275 


for her ; and again, 1 know not why it was, but 
she seemed almost melancholy at the mention of it, 
and I began to have a misgiving that her marriage 
might not be as happy as she anticipated. She 
even said to me one day when in one of her sad 
moods, 4 It seems as if something dreadful will 
happen. ’ and although I half believed her, I tried to 
persuade her that it was only imagination. 

4 4 As I was to be her bridesmaid, I went to 
Brooklyn about the middle of May to help in the 
preparations which were already commenced. She 
received a dispatch the day of my arrival, saying 
that Lord Montrose was to sail that day, and how 
happy she was to think that in a few days more he 
would be with her, and then a little over a week 
after his arrival she would be no longer Melissa 
Chambers but Lady Monti'ose. 

4 - 1 think I never saw her as happy as on the day 
the steamer was due. She arose early in the morn- 
ing and several times during the day messengers 
were sent to the harbor to see if she had anchored, 
only to bring back the news that nothing had been 
heard from her. The next day it was the same, 
and we tried to explain to Melissa that the steamer 
might have been delayed and might anchor 
the next day. The watch continued for thirteen 
days and then news came that the steamer had 


276 * THE BROWN CURL. 

gone down at mid-ocean and all on board had been 
lost. 

> 4 Unfortunately, Melissa was the first one to 
learn the sad news, having read it in the morning 
paper, which was brought to her room by an impru- 
dent servant before anyone else saw it. It was a 
terrible shock to her, and the fact that «she had 
neither home or relatives, made it harder for her 
to bear . 

“ For a few weeks she remained with her friend, 
who in her affliction, was more a mother to her 
than ever before, and about the middle of July 
was prevailed upon by her to go again to the sea- 
shore, where it was thought she might improve 
her health, which was quite poor. The seashore 
was more distasteful to her than ever, but at the 
advice of her physicians she remained there about 
seven weeks. 

“ When the season at the seashore was over, 
she wrote to me that as soon as her health was 
sufficiently recovered, she intended going to De- 
troit to join the order of Sisters who taught at St. 

Academy. It was a secret, she said, and as 

I was the only one she had ever hinted it to, I 
must keep it for her. This I knew had been the 
greatest desire of her childhood, but as she grew 
older and entered the ranks of society, she be- 


THE BROWN CURL. 


277 


•came so blinded by its flatteries and false pleas- 
ures that she soon gave up the idea. She found 
too much enjoyment in society to forsake it un- 
til, left alone in the world, she awoke to the fact 
that its gilded pleasures were not as bright as they 
had appeared. 

4 4 1 invited her to spend the winter with me, 
thinking that the quiet country would be more 
beneficial to her health, but she declined my in- 
vitation, saying that she did not wish to give up 
the physician with whom she was doctoring, as 
she was certain he would cure her, and she pre- 
ferred staying for the present at the convent, 
where she had attended school in New York. 
None of her friends, not even the lady who had 
given her a home in Brooklyn, knew where she 
was now, and she hoped to keep her whereabouts 
unknown to them all; first, because she wished 
never to meet any of them again, and second, be- 
cause she did not wish to be a burden any longer 
on the one who had shown her so much kindness 
already, and who, she knew, would insist on taking 
her to her home again if she knew she was sick. 
She remained at the convent a few months, and, 
although she bravely fought against her dread 
malady, it was noticed that her health was grad- 
ually failing, until at last she was pronounced be 


278 


THE BROWN CURL. 


yond help. 

“ It was early in the spring, when I received a 
letter from one of the Sisters at the hospital, say- 
ing that Melissa had been brought there about 
two weeks before, and would like to see me. Two 
days later I was at her bedside. She was over- 
joyed to see me, and she told me she had feared 
we would never meet again. But what a great 
change had come over her, and who would have 
believed that this white faced invalid, whose only 
color was a deep hectic flush on each cheek, was 
the same bright-eyed, Tosy-cheeked society belle, 
who so short a time ago had been noted for her 
great beauty. It was with difficulty that I sup- 
pressed my tears when I saw her, but 1 would not 
add to her sufferings by letting her know how 
grieved I was to see her thus. 

‘ k As she lay there, how much she reminded me 
of the little girl by whose bedside I had watched a 
few years before, and yet I could hardly believe 
that she was the same. To-day, as on that day, she 
had fallen into a restless slumber, but my en- 
trance into her room awoke her, and her greeting 
was much as it had been then, a most affectionate 
one. She pressed my hand to her almost color- 
less lips and said, ‘Laura, my dearest friend,’ 
I am so glad that you have come, and you will 


THE BROWN CURL. 


279 


remain with me until I am better, won’t you ? ’ I 
promised her I would remain in the city for a few 
weeks, and would see her every day. She seemed 
pleased, for although she spoke of getting well, I 
know she felt then, that at the end of those few 
weeks, she would probably be gone. 

“The days passed slowly, and as I boarded 
near the hospital, I was with her the greater part 
of the time. At times she seemed quite well and 
was able to go with me for short drives, or to be 
wheeled about the park in an invalid’s chair; 
then, at other times, she would sink so low that 
it seemed as if the day of her death had come. 
I dared not speak to her of coming home, for she 
often told me I was the only one in the world she 
had to care for her now, and she did not want me 
to leave her. 

“ One day when 1 was alone with her she said: 

£ Laura, do you remember how, when a child, I 
always said I would like to be a Sister?’ I told 
her that I did, and she continued, ‘ That was my 
intention while in school, and it was with that one 
object in view that I studied so hard while in 
school. It was only to please my mother that I 
ever had any thoughts of entering society, for the 
idea always seemed very distasteful to me. After 
mother’s death, I was more than ever attached 


280 


THE BROWN CURL. 


to' the convent, but when I received an invitation 
to spend the winter in Brooklyn, I would not 
have gone had not the Sisters advised me to, say- 
ing that it would be better for me to see a little 
of the world’s ways ere I bid it adieu, and if I had 
a true vocation it would lead me back to them be- 
fore long. They were blind, however, to that 
one great fault, vanity, which was so strong with- 
in me, and which was destined to bring me to 
sorrow. 

4 4 Melissa paused here, and I shuddered when I 
thought how some time ago I had had misgivings 
of this, and now had they indeed become a reality? 
Melissa went on. 44 The gay life into which I 
was plunged on my entrance in the social world, 
was such a contrast to the blissful quietness of the 
convent, that I did not like it at first, but was too 
proud to let any one know it; however, I too soon 
grew accustomed to it and learned to enjoy it. 
The flatteries I received pleased me too much to 
give them up, and like the gay friends I had made 
I began to think that my face was too pretty to hide 
under the black veil of a nun; so I gave up the 
thought of ever returning to my peaceful home, 
as the convent had been for so many years. 

4 4 Often during my visit to you, while away 
from my gay city friends, the thought would 


THE BROWN CURL. 


281 


come to me that the convent was the right place 
for me, and it would be best for me to break my 
engagement and return to it, but I would banish 
it from my mind and try to think instead of the 
beautiful home across the sea where I would reign 
as queen, enjoying the affections of one of the 
truest of husbands and the company of some of 
England’s noblest people. As these enchanting ideas 
passed through my mind, it would occur to me that 
it had only been a foolish childish whim to think ' 
of shutting myself up in the convent. 

“When I heard that sad news, which I can 
hardly mention now, and which I believe was a 
just punishment for my pride, the memories of my 
happy school days returned to me with new vivid- 
ness, and I resolved to carry out those old resolu- 
tions, but it was too late. God would not accept 
my second love which I had so wilfully taken 
from him to bestow upon another, who is now 
sleeping in a watery grave, all through my fault, 
and cannot help me to face the doom which awaits* 
me. All I can do now is to wait patiently for the 
time when God shall be pleased to take me from 
home, which I do not think is far off. 

“This was the first time she had ever spoken of 
death, and after she had finished she drew to His 
her bosom a small silken case, which was held by 


^82 THE BROWN CURL. 

a cord around her neck, and said she wished me to 
do her a favor. The case contained her engagement 
ring, and handing it me, she said, < Laura, the 
stone in that ring is very valuable, and I wish to 
sell it and have a new altar put in the chapel at 

St. Academy in Detroit as a tribute to my 

memory. I have never been a moment without it 
since the day he placed it on my finger, but I will 
npt want it much longer, so take it now to some 
reliable jeweler and see what you can get for it. 
Do not delay, for I want to know that the altar 
has been ordered before I die, and I can think then 
that some day the Holy Sacrifice may be offered 
on it for me. ’ 

u Idid not wish to take such a responsibility 
upon myself, but Melissa’s mind was so set on it 
that I had to obey, and it was with the greatest re- 
luctance that I took the ring from her. I think that 
I never saw her so happy when the next day I told 
her that the price of it would buy a very hand- 
some, though quite small, marble altar. 

“ After this she failed so rapidly that she re- 
ceived the last rites of the church the same week, 
and she began to long for death now rather than 
fear it, as she had at the beginning of her illness. 
Another week she lingered on between life and 
death, suffering intensely, but patiently, until the 


THE BROWN CURL. 


28 a 


last evening in May. 

“The Sisters had all gone to the chapel for the 
closing of the May devotions, and I was alone with 
her. We had been listening to their sweet voices 
as they sang a May hymn, the last notes of which 
were just dying upon the air when Melissa said, 

‘ Laura, how sweet the voices of the Sisters sound 
to-night. ’ 

“‘Yes’ Melissa,’ I answered, ‘But no sweeter 
than they always d@.’ 

‘ ‘ She looked at me with an expression that I shall 
never forget ; — half of joy, half of sadness — and 
said, ‘ They may not sound any sweeter to you, 
Laura’ — her voice was sad and low as she spoke, 
— but to me they do, for — she paused for a mo- 
ment as if to catch her fleeting breath — I can al- 
most hear other far sweeter voices mingled with 
theirs. L am not afraid to die now and, oh ! I 
shall be so happy.’ 

‘ ‘ I knew that she was dying and I grasped the 
knob of the bell at her bedside to ring it, but while 
she was speaking, one of the Sisters had stepped 
into the room, followed by the chaplain of the hos- 
pital, who was just coming from the chapel. Her 
words had been overheard by both, and one glance 
at her pale face told them the end had come. At 
a signal from the priest we fell upon our knee& 


284 


THE BROWN CURL. 


&nd he commenced the prayers for the dying, but 
they were not half finished when, at a motion 
from the sister, he changed to the recitation of the 
De Profundis for the soul that had just departed. 

44 The next morning I dispatched a messenger 
with the sad news to Melissa’s friend in Brooklyn, 
whom she had refused to see during her illness, 
hut whom she wished to be informed of her death 
The lady came that afternoon and shed many bit- 
ter tears over her young friend who had died in a 
hospital so near her, when she might have spent* 
her days amid the luxuries of her home. She 
wished to have the body removed to her own home 
now, but it had been Melissa’s request to be buried 
from the hospital, and the Superior would not dis- 
respect her wishes by permitting her to be taken 
away. 

4 4 On the morning of the second day her funeral 
was held at the hospital chapel, and she was sent 
that afternoon to Detroit, where she was buried 
beside her parents. 

44 Melissa’s old friend and myself were the only 
mourners, and of all that gay throng, who in the 
city across the river had so greatly admired her 
beauty and showered so many flatteries upon her 
only a little over a year before, not one came to pay 
a last tribute of respect to her before being taken 


I 


THE BROWN CURL. 285 

away to her grave. The beauty of their idol had 
faded and she was forgotten by all. ” 

Aunt Laura ceased speaking and a tear fell upon 
the brown curl as she tenderly replaced it in the 
box. Clara, too, was in tears when she heard the 
end of the story of this beautiful girl, and she 
asked her aunt to show her Melissa’s grave when 
she took her to Detroit the next fall to commence 
her studies at St. Academy. 

Aunt Laura promised she would, and when she 
went to Detroit with her niece the cemetery was 
one of the first places they visited. She had once 
known the location of the graves well, but now it 
was with the greatest difficulty that she found them, 
for they were overgrowm with weeds and bushes 
and only the stone that marked her father’s grave 
could be found, while down among the weeds could 
just be discerned the mound where rested the once 
beautiful Melissa. Her only monument is the 
marble altar in the chapel, and Clara, who knows 
her story, always thinks of her, when after a day 
spent among her books she enters the chapel for 
her evening prayers. 

Melissa had given up her vocation for the flat- 
teries of the world, thinking that her face w T as too 
pretty to hide in the convent, but her conquests in 
society had lasted only two brief seasons, then in 


286 


THE BROWN CURL, 


the bloom and beauty of youth she had been for- 
gotten by her admirers and laid away where : 

“ The mighty caravan of life 
Above her dust might sweep, 

Nor shout, nor trampling foot should break 
The rest of her last sleep.” 

THE END 

r 

or 

THE BROWN CURL. 




A New England Hermit 


CHAPTER I. 

uHPHE prayers of the congregation are 
A requested for the happy repose of the 
soul of Margaret Conroy, who died yesterday, and 
whose funeral is to take place to-morrow at nine 
o’clock.” 

These words were spoken by Father Wilson, 
the rector of St. Bernard’s Church in a little 
village in southern Maine, during Mass one 
morning in May. A look of surprise was on the 
faces of many of the listeners and tears filled their 
eyes when they heard this announcement, for the 
one who was prayed for that day had been in 
church with them the Sunday before as well as on 
every other Sunday for many years passed. A 
few had missed her from her accustomed place m 
a seat in the wing at the right of the altar, and 
wondered why she was not present, but as she had 
apparently been in the best of health when they 


288 A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 

last saw her, no one dreamed that she was dead. 

Margaret, or Maggie, as she had always been 
called, was a very strange person, for not one of 
her numberless friends knew who she was or 
whence she had come. All that was known of her 
was that more than thirty- five years ago she had 
come to the village and rented two or three small 
rooms in the basement of a tenement house near 
the church, and had made those same rooms her 
abode for several years, until the house being sold 
and repaired, she had taken pleasanter, though not 
larger quarters in another house near by. Here 
she had remained until the day when she left her 
humble lodgings to return no more. Those who 
visited her were particularly struck with the 
cheerfulness and order of what she was pleased to 
call home. The furniture was of the cheapest 
kind and was rather scanty, consisting only of 
what was necessary for her to keep house with, 
and in addition to this were a few luxuries in the 
form of a few books and two or three pious pic- 
tures on the wall. One of these which she prized 
very highly was a small but beautiful painting of 
“Our Mother of Sorrows,” and those who knew 
Maggie best were greatly edified by the devotion 
which she had for our Blessed Lady under this 
title. Another picture, which hung beside her 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 


289 


favorite was that of a sweet-faced wonun, to whom 
our heroine bore a strong resemblance and who 
she said was her mother. A careful study of the 
picture could not help revealing that the woman 
was far above the poorer class, the air of refine- 
ment in her face, the richness of her dress, and 
the loftiness with which she held her head were 
proofs of this. 

Those who remembered Margaret when she first 
came, said that at that time she had been a very 
handsome woman of not more than thirty, and her 
beauty had at first excited much admiration among 
the villagers, but as the years passed, her hair, 
which had been a beautiful brown, had slowly 
lost its rich color, her deep blue eyes had lost 
their brightness, and deep lines had gradually 
made their appearance on her face; so that she 
could no longer be called beautiful, but her kind 
face was still just as sweet if not sweeter than in 
her youjh. What puzzled many was that, al- 
though apparently very poor, she had a superior 
education. Latin and French were as natural to 
her as the English tongue and she appeared to be 
well versed in several of the higher branches of 
education. She took great precaution not to let 
anyone know how well educated she was — but try 
as she might, she could not keep it entirely a 


£90 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 


secret 

Naturally the people of the village had tried 
repeatedly to find out who she was and where she 
came from. Some had questioned her, to receive 
no definite answer, and to have her change the 
subject immediately, and the busy gossipers of the 
town had set afloat many different stories concerning 
her, hoping that their curiosity might be satisfied, 
but without success; so after a while they gave 
up their efforts and thought no more of her his- 
tory. 

During the thirty five years of her residence in 
the village, she had supported herself by doing 
plain sewing, which she would carry home to the 
owner if it were not called for when finished, and 
*on some of these occasions, if pressed very hard 
to do so, she would remain a few minutes; but as 
for calling on anyone, she was never known to do 
iit excepting in time of sickness. If a poor person 
were sick, it mattered little how far away they 
were or how cold and stormy the weather might 
be, she was always one of the first to be at their 
bedside. Going fearlessly into homes where con- 
tagious diseases were and where few people would 
dare to enter, it was she who was their most 
faithful friend and nurse. She would often pay 
the physicians and buy their medicine from her 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 291 

own scanty earnings, when they were unable to 
do so themselves, and would buy little dainties to 
tempt their appetite. It seemed as if she spent 
more money than she earned, for she was very 
poor, and to many it was almost a mystery how 
she supported herself. The parish priest, if called 
upon at the dead hour of the night to go to the 
bedside of some poor dying parishioner, was never 
surprised to find this same strange person waiting 
to accompany him . 

There was scarcely a morning that she was not 
seen at Mass. She was often waiting on the 
doorsteps before the church was opened and was 
always among the last to leave when the divine 
services were over. If she were ever missed from 
her accustomed place, it was known that some 
poor person must be dangerously ill and she was 
with them. 

She seemed to take little rest, for late at night 
the light might be seen burning brightly in her 
room, and any one who chanced to pass, if the cur- 
tains were drawn, might see her sitting by the 
table sewing, or pen in hand, bending over some- 
thing she was writing, but no one had ever seen a 
line that she had written or been able to learn 
what it was that occupied so many long evenings. 

Thus, through all these long years, she had 


292 A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 

worked on through summer’s heat and winter’s 
storm, keeping aloof from all, yet making her- 
self well known to everybody; always showing 
that saintly patience and sweetness of disposition 
which won the affection of all. 

There were few, if any, in that large congrega- 
tion called upon to pray for her this Sunday 
morning, who had not at some time felt or heard 
of her charity, and now that she had so suddenly 
been taken from them, her loss was keenly felt by 
all. Never in the history of St. Bernard’s 
Church had prayers for the dead been offered up 
with more heartfelt fervor than they were now. 
A dear friend was gone whose place could never 
be tilled, was all they thought of, and her loss 
came to the hearts of all as if they had lost a dear 
relative. 

For the past few weeks Margaret, although she 
had appeared as well as usual to strangers, had 
been feeling very poorly, and those who saw most 
of her could not help noticing that she was slowly 
failing. She was advised to give up her work for 
a time, as she needed rest, but she refused, and 
kept up trying to hide her sickness, saying that 
she felt quite well, and working even more cheer- 
fully than she ever had before. She lingered 
longer in the church after Mass now, and when 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 293 

she did leave, it seemed to be with a feeling almost 
of regret that she could not spend more time 
there. The Friday morning before her death she 
was at Mass as usual, but it was only just over 
when she fainted. No one noticed it at first, as 
her bead had fallen on her hands, which were 
resting on the back of the seat in front of her, 
and they thought that she was praying. 

About an hour after Mass the sexton, passing 
through the church, saw her there motionless, 
and going over to speak to her found her in- 
sensible. She was carried to the convent adjoin- 
ing the church, and laid on a bed from which she 
was never to arise. A physician was called, and 
when he saw her he said that she had, at most, but 
a few days more to live and she needed only per- 
fect quiet and rest. She appeared to be afflicted 
with no disease, but had been worn out by the con- 
stant care and hard work taken upon herself. She had 
lived only for the good she could do, but her mis- 
sion was done now, and when she heard the physi- 
cian’s words she received the tidings with joy say- 
ing, “ Thanks be to God.” 

The whole day she spent in a sort of meditation, 
refusing to see anyone excepting the Sisters, who 
watched over her and the priest who came in the 
evening to hear her last confession and prepare 


294 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 


her for the sacraments of the dying. She also 
gave the strictest orders that her illness was not 
to be mentioned to anyone outside of the convent 
for fear that the Sisters would be troubled by 
some of her numberless friends, who might be 
calling to see her, or to inquire how she was. 
Early Saturday morning she received the Holy 
Viaticum and Extreme Unction with the greatest 
fervor and devotion. She seemed to care for 
nothing now, and to think only of being united to 
her Creator in death, which came that evening, 
when she passed away as quietly as if she had only 
fallen into a peaceful slumber. 

They laid her out in the convent chapel,, 
and Sunday afternoon many poor people, to 
whom she had been a sister of charity, and those 
more favored by fortune, who knew- her well for 
her kindness, came to take a last look at their be- 
loved dead. They brought no flowers, because it 
was her will that none should be laid on her cof- 
fin. She asked only for a few sincere honest 
prayers from those who cared for her, and these 
were offered up to the throne of God in abundance, 
by lips that during her life had never tired of 
speaking her praises. 

At the funeral on Monday morning, the church 
was crowded almost to overflow, and many were 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 295 

the tears that were shed as the last sad rites were 
being performed over her who had died be- 
loved by every one, but unknown, as it were, and 
a stranger to all. It was sadder still at the grave, 
where the sobs of the poor might be heard as they 
they buried the friend from whom it seemed that 
they could not part. As Ihey turned from the 
cemetery more than one voice was heard, saying 
truthfully, u that another saint was in Heaven. ” 
Her grave was long kept fresh and green by her 
friends, and was soon marked by a small marble 
slab erected by them. On it was written these 
words: “ Margaret Conroy, died May 22, 18 — , 
aged 66 years,” and below this, u May she rest in 
peace. ” 


296 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 


CHAPTER II. 

'C'lYE years later a party of wealthy Irish tour- 
* ists arrived in the quiet little village where 
Margaret lived and died. What had prompted 
them to visit such an out of the way and uninter- 
esting place nobody knew. They seemed to have 
stopped there through mere chance, and the town 
was so pleasant and quiet in comparison to some 
of the large cities they had visited that they de- 
cided to remain there and rest awhile before going 
farther. One evening two of them were strolling 
through the cemetery when one of them, a young 
lady, stopped at Margaret’s grave, and reading the 
inscription on the tombstone, called to an elderly 
gentleman, whom she called father, and pointing 
to it said: “ I think we have found her at last! ” 

“Who?” asked her father, putting on his 
glasses to read the inscription. His face turned 
pale, he read the name several times to make 
sure that there was no mistake. “Yes Margaret, ” he 
said more to himself than to his daughter, ‘ 1 the 
name and age is the same as hers, but there are 
doubtless many Margaret Conroy’s in the world.” 

“The parish priest might give us some infor- 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 297 

mation concerning the woman,” suggested his 
daughter, ‘ ‘ at any rate it would do no harm to 
call on him and ask him.” 

“I will call on the priest this evening,” said her 
aged companion, “ I cannot rest until I do.” 

Margaret, for that was the girl’s name, glanced 
over to the rectory, which was across the street, 
and seeing the priest sitting alone on the veranda, 
said, u There he is, father, and as no one is with 
him we might go over now.” 

The old gentleman read the inscription again, 
then turned and walked across the street with his 
daughter. Father Wilson, who had seen them at 
Mass the Sunday before and had heard much 
about them from his visitors, gave them a cordial 
welcome. When he learned the object of their 
visit, he was somewhat surprised, and hesitated at 
first to tell anything of Margaret’s history except- 
ing what was known by all of her friends. 

When Father Wilson had finished, the gentleman 
asked if he could tell him where he could find any 
of the books or pictures which Margaret had left. 

“Yes,” said Father Wilson, “she left every- 
thing to me when she died to do with as I wished. 
Her books and two of her pictures I kept, but her 
furniture, clothes and such things I gave to a 
poor family who lost everything by fire a short 


298 A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT, 

time after her death. ” 

44 May I see what you have belonging to her?” 
asked the stranger. 

“Certainly,” answered the priest, “come in 
and I will show them to you,” and Father Wilson 
led the way into the parlor, wondering why this 
stranger should be so interested in Margaret Con- 
roy. “There,” he said, pointing to the picture 
of “Our Mother of Sorrows” which hung on the 
wall, “that was her favorite picture and I have 
kept it partly as a remembrance of her and partly 
because it is such a fine work of art.” 

The gentleman put on his glasses and carefully 
examined the picture for a few minutes, then gave 
his companion a look which seemed t© say, “I 
think we have found her,” and turning to the 
priest he said, 4 4 That is certainly a very fine 
work of art. ’ ’ 

44 Yes,” said the priest, 4 4 and I prize it very 
highly, but here is another painting which is a 
most perfect picture of herself, only it is a little 
old style and the lady is dressed much more 
richly than my friend ever did. She told me it 
was her mother’s picture and I think that no 
daughter ever could bear a stronger resemblance 
to her mother than she did. 

The stranger looked at the picture for a few 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 299 

minutes, and tears filled his eyes. Turning from 
the portrait he 9aid, 4 4 That woman is my mother, 
too, and Margaret Conroy was my only sister, but 
please show me the books.” 

The priest looked at him in amazement, then at 
his companion who stood motionless at his side, 
gazing at her grandmother’s picture, and he noticed 
that the girl bore almost as strong a resemblance 
to the portrait as Margaret had. He stepped 
over to a well-filled book case and selecting a few 
small books handed them to the gentleman. 

After carefully examining each book, he laid 
them on the table and said to his daughter, 4 k Thank 
God, we have found her at last, even though she 
is dead. These are the same books she took with 
her.” He was now so fully overcome that he 
could say no more for a few minutes, but when 
he regained his self-possession he told the follow- 
ing story, to which Father Wilson listened with a 
strange interest, and which I will give in my own 
words: 

Years ago a very wealthy and aristocratic Irish 
family had lived in a pleasant village near Dublin. 
They h;<d two children, a son named Char esanda 
daughter, Margaret, four years younger. Mar- 
garet had always been the favorite of her parents 
as well as of all strangers who knew her, because 


300 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 


she had such winning ways combined with a most 
lovable disposition 'and was kind to everyone; 
while her brother, on the other hand, was stern, 
haughty and commanding in his ways. He felt 
his position in the world and wished to make 
everyone else feel it and honor him on account of 
it. In fact, he was one of those who make few 
friends and cannot keep those few long. Knowing 
this too well, he early conceived a dislike for his 
little sister, who was so unlike him in all things, 
and many times the wrath caused by well-earned 
snubs received from those whom he thought should 
pay him homage fell on her innocent head. Charles 
had always been a source of the greatest anxiety 
to his parents, especially his mother, who died when 
he was sixteen and Margaret twelve. 

Shortly after her mother’s death Margaret was 
sent to a noted convent in England, where she 
remained eight years until she finished her educa- 
tion, graduating with highest honors. She 
returned home with no other hopes than to make 
a good and worthy mistress of her father’s home 
and to fill her mother’s place; she bad been at 
home but a few weeks, however, when all of her 
hopes were crushed for her father died, leaving 
her with no near relative and no one to care for 
her excepting her brother. In him all the bad 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 301 

habits of his youth had increased as he grew to 
manhood, and he was a poor protector for the young 
girl who had no one else to look to as a friend. 
He had grown extremely jealous of her during her 
absence, and her gentle lady like appearance, which 
won so many friends for her on her return, 
strengthened this feeling. 

As the weeks passed, her company, instead of be- 
ing a source of pleasure to him, became more and 
more odious, and he wished to rid himself of her and 
also get possession of her part of the estate. He set 
about this in a most artful way. Changing from 
his former surliness, he became one of the most 
affectionate of brothers to her, while she overjoyed 
to see what she thought was a reform in him, she 
returned the purest of sisterly affections, having 
the greatest confidence in him and never for a mo- 
ment suspecting any evil. Fully understand- 
ing this confidence and taking advantage of it, her 
artful brother found it easy to persuade her to let 
him sell her part of the property, as well as his 
own, to a man who was very anxious to buy the 
entire estate and had offered a large price for it. 
He told her that their home was so lonely without 
their parents that he could not live in it much 
longer and promised to go to America, where they 
would make their future home. 


302 A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 

The next week Margaret received an invitation 
to travel on the continent with some friends, but 
would not have accepted it had not her brother in- 
sisted upon her going. He said that he would 
probably not be ready to leave home for a few 
months, and there were several things to be at- 
tended to yet, and in the meantime she could not 
spend her time better than by seeing some of the 
beautiful countries from which she was soon to be 
separated by the Atlantic. He was with her when 
she finished packing her last trunk preparatory for 
her trip, and had noticed that among other things 
she put in a few religious books. He had 
laughed at her for taking them and said that she 
was too pious, but she took no heed of his words. 
He had taken particular notice of them and saw 
that there were six, three of which had a peculiar 
binding . They had been one of her last presents 
from her mother, and her name was written in 
them in her well-known handwriting, while in the 
others Margaret herself had written her name. 
These were the same books that Father Wilson 
now brought forth to show to her brother. The 
picture of ‘ ‘ Our Mother of Sorrows ” had been 
painted by his sister during the last year she had 
spent in school, and her mother's portrait had been 
given to her by her dear parent when a child, and 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 303 

she prized these so highly that she did not wish to 
leave them at home when she went away, so she 
packed them in one of her trunks. 

About three months later, while Margaret was 
enjoying a very pleasant visit with some old 
schoolmates in Switzerland, she received a letter 
from her brother, saying that he had been obliged 
to vacate his home sooner than he had expected, and 
was about to sail that day for New York, where he 
hoped soon to make a home for her and would 
then return to Europe for her. Four weeks after 
he wrote this letter he sent another from Boston, 
where he had just arrived, telling her that he 
wished her to visit some of the American cities 
with him before purchasing a home, and promising 
to let her make her own choice in the place of their 
future residence. He said that she might join him 
as soon as she wished, but not to shorter her visit 
©n his account, as he could find plenty of enjoy- 
ment with which to while away the time until she 
came. 

He remained in Boston until he received a letter 
from her stating the time that she would meet him 
there. He then left the city and went to New 
York, where he remained until it was time for her 
to arrive in Boston, when he sailed for England. 
As she knew the name of the hotel where he was 


304 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 


stopping, he knew that if he did not meet her as 
he had promised, she would make inquiries for him 
there. Before leaving New York he sent a letter 
back to the hotel conveying the news of his sudden 
death in that city, and the name of a well-known 
physician, who was well paid for the fraud, was 
signed to the letter. He even went so far as to 
state where he had been buried in one of the New 
York cemeteries. The grave, supposed to be his; 
was the resting place of an unknown man, who 
had died in the alms-house about that time. 

After this he spent several years enjoying, or try- 
ing to enjoy, his ill-gotten wealth in different parts 
of Europe. He had married in the meantime, and 
while not traveling, made his home in the 
northern part of Ireland, where he lived for several 
years in luxury, but not in happiness, for the sweet 
face of his sister he had wronged was continually 
haunting. him. He never visited his native town, 
for he was as dead to all whom he had known as he 
was to Margaret. He kept his secret for years, until 
his son and two daughters had grown up, but 
when he saw in his own girls the image of his sis- 
ter, he could keep silent no longer and told it to his 
wife and children, hoping to find relief in having 
someone know the wrong he had done. He would 
willingly ,, have traveled all over the world and 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 


305 


given all his wealth to find her now, but as it had 
been many years since she went away, he had no 
hope of ever seeing or hearing from her again. His 
mind was a little freer, now that his family shared 
his secret — that was all. 

It was not so with his younger daughter, a 
lovely girl of nineteen, who for her aunt bore the 
name of Margaret, and who grew so much more 
like her each day that her father almost felt that 
his sister had come back to his home with all the 
charming ways of her youth, while he, her proud 
brother, had grown old during her absence. Mar- 
garet had the most brilliant hopes that the aunt, of 
whom she had often heard in her childhood, and 
who her father had always until now told her had 
died before his marriage, might still be living and 
they could find her. She told her father of her hopes, 
begging him to go to America in search of her, 
and her sister joined in her entreaties ; so after 
some time he gave his consent to go the next sum- 
mer, more to please his daughters than for any 
other motive. 

They spent several months in the United States, 
lingering longer in the New England States than 
any where else, because that was where Margaret 
had gone, and making inquires every where, 
which, as might be expected, were utterly fruit- 


306 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 


less. Any attempt to find her seemed rather an 
absurdity, for after so many years of separation 
her brother might have met her face to face with- 
out recognizing her, and to what avail for him to 
inquire for Margaret Conroy; as she had in all 
probability married years ago or perhaps entered 
•a convent, as her brother had thought her inten- 
tions to be when she was young. In either case 
it would be equally difficult to find her. They 
returned home knowing no more than when they 
left. The father was more reconciled now, be- 
cause he had tried to find his sister, but still his 
daughter, Margaret, insisted that they had not 
searched enough. 

A few years passed, and again the Con- 
roy’s, with the exception of the son, who was mar- 
ried and gone to England, visited the new world. 
Mr. Conroy felt that he was too old to cross the 
•ocean again, but Margaret’s persuasions were too 
much for him to resist. She insisted, the same as 
before, that they might find her aunt, then a 
longiDg seized him to see her before he died, and 
ask her forgiveness for the injury he had done 
her. He left home with a prayer that his daugh- 
ter’s hopes might be fulfilled. Alice, the older 
daughter, accompanied them as a bride, and it 
was on her husband’s account that they visited 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 30T 

Maine, but it was only by mere chance that they 
happened to stop at the place where Margaret 
Conroy had lived and died. 

The old gentleman was deeply touched by 
what Father Wilson had told him of the saintly 
life and death of his sister. The sun had already 
set when he left the rectory, but he returned to 
the cemetery, and falling upon his sist^’s grave 
wept long and bitterly, the first tears he had shed 
since the death of his mother. Margaret knelt 
beside him in silence, feeling that even she, his own 
child, had no business to intrude upon his secret 
sorrow by trying to offer words of consolation. 
At last as the deep shadows began to fall, Mar- 
garet, feeling that the evening air was too damp 
for her father to be out in, laid her hand gently 
on his shoulder and said, “Come father, let us go 
home now, as it is getting too late for us to remain 
here. ” At the sound of her voice he started up 
as if aroused from a deep slumber, and taking her 
arm walked silently back to the hotel. 

A few days later Mr. Conroy bade a last, long 
farewell to the grave of his sainted sister, and ere 
long the ocean separated him once more from her 
resting place. Before the party left the village 
they had the little altar of the Blessed Virgin, be- 
fore which she had so often prayed, replaced by a 


308 A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 

beautiful marble one, as a tribute to her memory. 
They knew that if she were there and could make 
her wishes known, that she would be better 
pleased with that than with the most beautiful 
monument they could erect over her grave, and 
they would not disturb the tombstone which her 
friends had given her . 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 


309 


CHAPTER III. 

* I A HE rest of the story, which Margaret had told 
A FatherWilson shortly before her death, was 
this: “A short time after receiving her broth- 
er’s message to join him in Boston, she left her 
friends and hastened thither, being very happy to 
think that she would so soon be with him, but 
was greatly surprised to find he was not there to 
meet her. u Perhaps he did not understand 
when I was to be here, ” she thought, and she 
went to the hotel in quest of him. At first the 
proprietor pretended not to know who he was, 
then, after some little hesitation, he told her to 
wait in the parlor until he looked over the regis- 
ter for his name. He soon returned with the let- 
ter containing the news of her brother’s death, 
which he had received a few days before. 

Margaret was so overcome with grief that she 
<xmld not finish reading the letter. She had never 
before been alone or felt that she had no pro- 
tector, but now, finding herself a stranger, alone 
in a strange land, with neither friends nor money 
(for she had spent nearly all that she had, with 
hopes of getting more from her brother on her ar- 


310 A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 

rival) she knew not what to do. At first she 
thought of asking advice of the proprietor of the 
hotel, but he was so frigid in his manner toward 
her that she wished to leave him as soon as possi- 
ble, and besides she did not wish to put too much 
confidence in a stranger. 

Leaving the hotel with the letter in her hand,, 
she went out on the street, so overcome with grief 
that she walked on knowing not, and hardly car- 
ing where her steps might lead. Soon she saw be- 
fore her a large church whose steeple was sur- 
mounted by a golden cross, and when she saw that 
the door was open, her heart rose within her, and 
she entered. In this strange land she felt that 
she was not altogether forsaken, for under the 
sacramental veil on the altar rested the same God 
who dwells in so many sanctuaries on the dear 
old Irish soil, and He is ever ready to listen to 
the prayers of his children here as there. The 
young girl prayed most earnestly for guidance as 
to what to do in her hour of loneliness, and while 
there it occurred to her that she might find a 
friend in the parish priest, so she called on him. 

Father Kelly was not at home, but the house- 
keeper invited her in, telling her that he would be 
there in a few minutes. When he came he re- 
ceived her very kindly, and as soon as she saw his 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 311 

pleasant face and heard his welcoming words, she 
felt that she had certainly found in him one who 
would be a true friend, and she told her story to 
him as she would to an old friend. He took great 
interest in the poor friendless orphan and promised 
to do all that he could to help her. He feared 
that there might be foul play somewhere, and thai 
her brother might, perhaps, have been murdered 
by someone who wished to get possession of his 
money. He said nothing of his fears to her, how- 
ever, but did all that he could to console and en- 
courage her. He would not permit her to return 
to the hotel, but took her to the home of a respect- 
able Catholic family, where she was to remain 
until something more definite was learned of her 
brother’s death, and her property found. 

Several letters were written to New York, but 
the physician, whose name was signed to the let- 
ter the hotel keeper had received, was the only one 
who could give any information. All that he could 
tell was of his sudden death and burial, but nothing 
could be learned of what had become of his 
property. Letters were also sent to Ireland, but 
to no more purpose. He had left his old home sev- 
eral months before, after having sold everything, 
and had taken all of his wealth with him, and 
nothing had been heard from him since. 


312 A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 

In the meantime Father Kelly had obtained 
Margaret a position as governess of three small 
children in a Catholic family, and she remained 
with them six years, until the mother died and the 
home was broken up, the children being sent to a 
boarding-school. Caring for nothing but the wel- 
fare of her pupils, she had become a great favor- 
ite in the family, and the Father would gladly have 
found her another place, but she refused to accept 
the offer, thanking him for his kindness. 

Her motive for refusing to accept the offer was 
that she longed to be alone where, unknown, 
she could spend her life in the service of her 
Creator, doing good to others and working for the 
salvation of her own soul. As her brother had 
often suspected, it had been her one desire, when 
young, to enter a convent, but when her parents 
died and she was left alone with him, she intended 
to remain with him until he was married, which 
she hoped would be soon ; then when she was free 
she would join a religious order, but nowit occur- 
red to her that by living a solitary life in the world 
and working for the poor, she might save her soul 
in a way that would be pleasing to her Creator. 

She had already given a large part of her earnings 
to the poor, but she still had quite a sum left, 
which paid her fare to a pleasant village in the 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 


313 - 


southern part of Maine. She rented the small 
rooms which she occupied for some time, and what 
money she had left she put away for the poor, 
while she went to look for sewing with which to 
support herself. She was not long in finding the 
poor and needy of the parish, and during the many 
years that she spent among them she never forgot 
them, but worked on with untiring zeal. She 
found, too, when her work was done, a little leisure 
time to devote to her pen, and during these spare- 
hours she translated a few works from the original 
French, which brought her a small income, but 
this was a work which she did without the knowl- 
edge of any of her friends, for she wished to ap- 
pear ignorant among them. 

Her life, like the lives of many others who try 
to make sacrifices for God’s sake, was not without 
its temptations. During the first few years her 
mind would often wander back to her old homo 
and the many friends of her youth ; then to the 
happy air castle she had built in her childhood, be- 
fore going to the convent to school; of future joys 
surrounded by wealth, luxury and gay friends. 
She thought, too, of a brilliant offer of marriage 
which she had rejected while traveling in Europe, 
and of another while governess in Boston, and almost 
wished sometimes that she had married and made 


314 A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT. 

for herself the beautiful home which she might 
have had, combined with the companionship of a 
true and noble husband. She would compare 
these with her present condition alone among 
strangers and far from the home of her childhood. 
She knew that her superior education would enable 
her in a short time to pay her passage back to Ire- 
land, and she would probably find there many of 
her old friends and distant relatives who would 
give her a hearty welcome to the dear old soil. She 
longed too, to see the scenes so dear to her in 
childhood and to visit the graves of her parents. 
As she began to grow old, she wished that she 
were where, in death, she might have the privil- 
ege of sleeping beside them in the churchyard so 
far away. 

The thought that the ocean rolled between her 
and their resting place made the temptation much 
stronger, but she conquered it by saying to herself 
that it was God’s will that she should be brought 
to this strange land, and thanked Him for giving 
her so excellent an opportunity to live for 
others and save her own soul without having the 
eyes of the busy and malicious world ever upon 
her. 

Beautiful was her life and happy her death. 
There are martyrs in these latter days as there 


A NEW ENGLAND HERMIT, 


315 


were in the early ages. Their sacrifices are no 
less great, their lives are as holy. Margaret Con- 
roy earned her crown, and we cannot doubt that 
she wears it 

THE END 
OF 

THE NEW ENGLAND HERMIT- 


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Air Castles 


OR THE 

School-girls’ Prophecies. 


CHAPTER I. 

TT was the twentieth of January and a cold 
A stormy day it had been, but what difference 
did that make to the young lady boarders at St. 

Agnes’ Academy in T . They had faced the 

storm and gone out for their daily promenade, 
which, on this afternoon, had been a very * short 
one, but the chilly air had only made them feel 
fresher and better prepared for the hour and a 
quarter’s study before them on their return. 
Study was over now, so was the rosary which was 
recited immediately after it; the boarders had also 
been to supper, and with the exception of a few of 


AIR CASTLES. 


317 


the more pious members of the school, who had 
gone to the chapel for a few minutes private 
devotion, the girls had gone to what was known 
•as the “recreation room.” 

This was a spacious and pleasant hall on the 
third floor of the building, used for all entertain- 
ments and meetings of the school, but its every day 
use was as a recreation hall for the boarders dur- 
ing the winter and when the weather prevented 
their spending their leisure hours on the lawn. 
From this it derived its name. In one end was 
a stage, in front of which were two pianos, 
while on each side were two long tables used by 
the classes in drawing, painting and needlework. 
And this room, like every other place of interest, 
had its registry book which, although kept in a 
secluded place, was much used by the students 
here as well as in every other large school. It 
was nothing more or less than the wood work 
around the stage which, being out of sight, had 
been left unpainted, with the white backs of the 
canvas scenes. Of course, as every student should 
know, when anything was written here it was al- 
ways done on the sly, but that did not prevent 
their being covered with pencil marks and if it 
could be known how some of these marks came to 
be here, some interesting stories might be told 


318 


AIR CASTLES. 


that would recall to mind many of those who had 
been students here years before but were now 
gone, who can tell where, and perhaps forgotten by 
many of the old friends. 

To-night we find eight of our older girls danc- 
ing a quadrille in one end of the room, the 
gentlemen being distinguished by handkerchiefs 
tied on their arm; at one of the tables a group of 
girls are playing games and another group are 
telling stories; here is a more industrious girl 
who is trying to finish a piece of fancy work, 
while two or three more have been selfish enough 
to leave their companions for the more interesting 
society of books, and the smaller girls have taken 
their places on the stage to rehearse their new 
original play to a very uninterested audience. As 
we look over this assemblage of young girls, we 
see such unity and happiness between them that 
we almost think they are one great family of sisters 
instead of children of so many different families, 
from various places, for such is the condition in 
convent boarding schools that none of the girls 
seem to be strangers to each other. 

Sitting beside the grand piano, are three girls in 
whom we are more interested than in any of the 
others. They appear to be deeply interested in a 
conversation which they are carrying on in a low 


AIR CASTLES. 


319 


tone and which they evidently do not intend shall be 
heard. Always looking for some new amusement 
with which to pass the recreation hour, it had oc- 
curred to one of them to spend it building air castles 
—an idea which pleased her cwo best friends. Each 
was to tell where she expected to be twelve years 
from that day. 

Bessie Arnold, the oldest of the trio, a bright, 
dark eyed girl who had just passed her fifteenth 
birthday, was the first to tell her story. She, 
unlike the others, was not a Catholic, and was the 
only child of very wealthy and worldly parents 
whose home was in a small village in Western 
Pennsylvania. From her infancy she had been 
idolized by both father and mother, surrounded 
by every luxury that money could buy and brought 
up to think only of the bright side of life, and the 
time when she hoped to become a society belle. 
Her parents’ only object was to make her a bril- 
liant woman of the world. There being no school 
in their town where ehe could obtain an education 
suitable to her rank, they had kept her under the 
care of a governess until the opening of the last 
fall’s term of school, when they sent her to St. 
Agnes’ Academy, where she was to remain until 
she finished. Despite all the petting she had re- 
ceived at home, she was not spoiled, and by her 


320 


AIR CASTLES. 


bright cheerful ways soon won many friends in- 
school. 

Agnes Wilson, the next, although only a few 
weeks younger than Bessie, appeared by her size 
to be not over twelve years old, but one glance at 
her sweet, though not handsome, face and soft 
grey eyes, would make you think her much older. 
Poor Agnes, her young life had been almost as 
full of darkness as Bessie’s had of sunshine. One 
of the first things she remembered, was how, when 
about four years old, she and a brother two years 
older, had been brought home, after being away for 
sometime, and her weeping father had held them in 
his arms to gaze for the last time on the face of their 
mother as she lay in her coffin. The children 
went to live with their grandmother, and about a 
year later both had scarlet fever, from which the 
boy died and poor little Agnes was left in a con- 
dition almost worse for her than death would have 
been. She had not quite recovered when, being 
left alone one day, she started to go down stairs to 
find her brother, whom she missed from her room. 
She was hardly strong enough to bear her weight, 
and fell down stairs, injuring her right limb so 
badly that she was laid up for several months, and 
it was feared she would never walk again. When 
she was able to move about with the aid' of 


AIR CASTLES. 


321 


crutches, the prospects were that she would be 
crippled for life. She was ten years old, when 
happily, she was able to lay aside one crutch, and 
might have recovered after a time had she not 
caught cold in the diseased limb, causing rheuma- 
tism, with which she was laid up for another year. 
Her father then placed her under the care of a 
skilled surgeon in a hospital, where she under- 
went a severe operation and spent many dreary 
weeks. , It was during her many hours of suffer- 
ing that the little girl acquired the most heroic 
patience, which she never lost, and which was to 
mark her career in -after life, and won for her 
much affection from all who kDewher well. 

The little girl’s happiest dreams had been of the 
time when she would be old enough to keep house 
for her father, who, after her brother’s death, had 
been her only idol, and while lying motionless in 
her little bed or sitting in her chair unable to rise, 
many weary hours had been whiled away in plan- 
ning what she would do to make her home pleasant. 
Never once did it occur to her that there was any 
possibility of anyone else ever enjoying that privil- 
ege, for was she not all that her father had to 
care for ? A disappointment awaited her even 
here, for a short time before she was to leave the 
hospital her father told her that he had married 


322 


AIR CASTLES. 


again. This grieved her more than all her suf- 
ferings had, and she dreaded to go home and find 
another in her mother’s place ; and she begged her 
father to send her to boarding school, where she 
might fit herself for a teacher. 

“ My father’s new wife may be very kind to 
him,” she -said to one of her friends at the hospital, 
“and I hope she will, but I do not want to go 
home and find her in mamma’s place.” 

Her father took her home for a while, but see- 
ing that she was not contented, placed her in St. 
Agnes’ Academy, where she had since remained 
spending her vacations there, and which she felt 
was the only home she had ever known. 

Grace Warren, the youngest of the three, was 
not quite fourteen, and a sweeter, lovelier girl had 
never been seen at the Academy. She was one of 
those whose presence seems to shed a ray of sun- 
shine wherever they go and whose friendship is 
sought and prized by all. Indeed, she seemed to 
live ©nly to love and to be loved. Grace had lost 
her mother when she was only six years old, and 
her father giving. her to the care of the Sisters, had 
broken up his home and stored some of his best 
things, with hopes of again keeping house when his 
little girl was old enough to be mistress of it, but 
not before, for while gazing on the face of his 


AIR CASTLES* 


323 


dead wife he had promised that no woman, ex- 
cepting her own child, should ever be queen of his 
home, and so far he had kept that promise. 

Bessie had just commenced her story when the 
door opened, and Laura Murphy, a pretty blue- 
eyed girl of about fourteen, entered and without 
thinking that she was intruding upon a secret con- 
versation, walked over to our young friends and 
said, 44 Well, girls, what are you so interested in ?” 

Bessie laughed and answered, 4 4 Since it is you, 
Laura, I suppose we shall have to let you into it, 
but it is to be a secret just among ourselves. Sit 
down and I will tell you about it, that is if the 
other girls don’t object.” 

44 Oh, certainly not,” said Grace and Agnes, 
44 we are glad to have you share our secret with 
us,” and Grace pushed toward her a big willow 
chair that sat beside the piano. 

Laura was an orphan, her father having been 
killed by a falling building when she was scarcely 
three weeks old, and the shock of his sudden death 
had caused her mother’s death. The mother, in 
dying, had placed her in her only sister’s arms, tell- 
ing her to care for her until she was old enough to go 
to school, then send her to the convent, where they 
themselves had received their education. Less 
than three years later the sister died, leaving the 


324 : 


AIR CASTLES. 


child at St. Agnes’, where she had since remained ; 
so Laura had grown up with the Sisters, knowing 
no other home than the convent, and finding there 
a most happy and peaceful abode. Laura in- 
herited from her mother a deep love for her relig- 
ion ; she was marked for her piety among her 
companions, and seemed to spend more time in the 
chapel than any of the other girls . It was from 
there she had just come, being, as was often the 
case, the last one to join the girls in the recre- 
ation hall. 

After telling Laura what the secret was to be, 
Bessie began : 

“ First, I shall remain here until I finish, which 
I expect to do when I am about nineteen. After 
that I expect to go to Europe with papa and 
mama and spend a year seeing the sights of the 
Old World, and may spend another year or two 
studying music in Germany. On our return 
home, I hardly know what I shall do, but I sup- 
pose I shall be obliged to remain most of the time 
in our own little village, although it is so dull I can 
hardly content myself there, and I prefer city life. 
I hope to visit some and have lots of company, so 
I won’t be very lonely. Twelve years from to- 
day I expect to be married to some very wealthy 
man and living in a beautiful home of my own in 


AIR CASTLES. 325 

Baltimore or Philadelphia. I shall spend the 
winters entertaining guests, and I hope to see 
many of my old school friends from here among 
them and I shall attend all of the leading balls and 
operas . A few weeks in the summer I shall 
spend with my parents, for it is quite pleasant at 
our home in the summer, and the rest of the time 
I expect to be at some fashionable summer resort, 
or at the seaside. Of course, I do not intend to 
spend all of my time thus, for even such a life as 
that would become monotonous, and I think too 
much of seeing other parts of the world and will 
travel some. Perhaps spend a few weeks in the 
West one year, and another time go to Europe or 
South America.” 

Thus the light-hearted girl who had never known 
the slightest care talked listlessly on for some 
time, describing the pleasures she believed to be 
in store for her, plainly showing what a sunny 
nature she had and how she had been brought up 
in perfect harmony with her natural disposition. 

When Bessie had finished, Agnes began by tell- 
ing how diligently she would study, as her 
companions well knew she had done since she had 
been in school with them, and would try to sur- 
pass all of her class-mates, unless it were Laura 
in catechism, she added laughingly, for Laura 


326 


AIR CASTLES. 


was often seen outside the study hall with her 
catechism in her hands and had never been known 
to fail in one lesson from it. Among her com- 
panions she was often called the little nun. After 
graduating here, Agnes would go to some college 
or training school to fit herself for a teacher and 
also perfect herself in the Latin, French and Ger- 
man languages. French being taught even in 
the lower grades at St. Agnes’, she already under- 
stood it quite well and the other languages seemed 
easy for her. She would then seek a position in 
some large school for which she hoped to be well 
qualified after so many years of hard study. 
Twelve years hence she pictured herself in a large 
school room filled with advanced pupils who wou Id 
look up to her as their teacher. 

The girl’s whole heart seemed to be wrapt up 
in this one ambition and to give it up would have 
cost her a great deal. One thing she had re- 
solved, although she would not even hint it to 
her most intimate friends, was that she would 
never go home to live with the one who had taken 
her own dear mother’s place. Her step-mother 
had always been kind to her, but she could not 
bear the thoughts of going home to live with her, 
while in her extreme sensitiveness she felt that 
her father, who now had another little girl to love, 


AIR CASTLES. 


327 


would not care very much if she did not go home 
to live. By nature she was independent and this 
spirit prompted the resolution to do for herself. 
With the money left her by her mother, she in- 
tended to finish paying for her education as she 
had done since she came to the academy. 

“I suppose it is my turn now,” said Grace, 
4 4 but I have very little to say. I never want to 
be any more or less than simply Grace War- 
ren, and the greatest fame I could ever aspire to is 
to be papa’s little house-keeper and make every- 
thing in our home as pleasant for him as I can . 
I do not think I would ever care to be any older 
than I am now, if papa would only make a home 
for us and let me go to keep house for him, but 
he says I am too young and must not think of 
such a thing until after I graduate which will not 
be until I am eighteen or nineteen. He has 
promised to have our old home re-furnished much 
as it was while mama was living. Twelve years 
from to-day I will be — let me see* almost twenty- 
six, just mama’s age when she died, although it 
seems that I will never be that old the time is so 
far off. I wish I would never be any older than 
nineteen, for it seems as though I would be happier 
at that age, but anyway, if I must grow older I 
will be, oh, so happy, in our own dear home, just 


328 


AIR CASTLES. 


papa and I, and when I think of it I sometimes 
wish that papa would not keep any servants, just 
so I could let him see how nice I could keep 
house for him without any help.” But the little 
white hands that lie in her lap did not look as if 
they could ever do any work. “If mama could 
only be with us,” she added, a tear trembling on 
her eyelid at the thought of the fair young mother 
whom she could just remember; “ but I will think 
of her very often and try to make up to papa for 
her absence.” 

“It is just like you, Grace,” said Agnes, “to 
want to remain a little girl all your life.” 

“ Now Laura, ” said Bessie, “we will see what 
you have to say of your plans for the future. I 
see by your face that you would like to leave us 
after hearing what the rest of us had to say. We 
know well your old trick of trying to escape say- 
ing anything about yourself; but you can’t do it 
this time, so hurry and tell us before the bell 
rings. 

Laura laughed a silvery little laugh to see that 
Bessie had read her thoughts so accurately and 
said: “Well, girls, 1 have but one desire, and it 
is never to leave this convent, where I have spent 
all my life and have been so happy. I know that 
no other place would ever seem like home to me, 


AIR CASTLES. 


329 s 


and twelve years from to-day, when you three are 
far away, you may think of me as being just 
where I am now. I hope to be more than one of 
the boarders then, and perhaps, ” she added, 
pointing to where the mistress of boarders sat be- 
hind a small table. “ I may be sitting there watch- 
ing a number of boarders just like the girls who 
are here to-night. If on the evening of the twen- 
tieth of J anuary I see a group of girls sitting by 
this piano, my thoughts may wander back to the 
evening twelve years before, which four girls* 
spent building air castles. By that time I shall 
probably know how many of them have fallen to 
decay. ” 

A merry laugh followed Laura’ s remark. One 
of the girls suggested that they should write all 
that had been said in a little memoranda and keep 
it to look at in after years, as a reminder of how 
they had spent one pleasant evening while in school. 
Just then the bell for evening prayers rang, 
and the boarders were soon on their way to the 
chapel on the floor beneath. 

The next morning four girls, who had finished 
their work in the dormitory before the others, 
stole down to the recreation room and went be- 
hind the scenes on the stage. No one saw them, 
and if they had they probably would not have 


330 


AIR CASTLES, 


taken any notice of the names written on the back 
of one of the scenes. They were Bessie Arnold, 
Agnes Wilson, Grace Warren, Laura Murphy, 
the name of each girl written in her own hand- 
writing, and below them the date, January 20, 
1877. 


AIR CASTLES. 


331 


CHAPTER IL 

npHE twelve years have passed and again it is 
A the evening of the twentieth of January. 
But where to-night are our four young friends? 
Has any part of their prophecies come true, and r 
if so, who can guess what part ? 

Although Grace was the youngest, it is she that 
we will look after first. I will not ask you to 
visit her lonely home on this stormy night, for 
dreary as the aspect may seem even at the bright- 
est time in the year, it will look more so now ; so 
I will take you back to last June, when the flowers 
were all in bloom and everything in nature looked 
its loveliest. In the shade of a pink hawthorn 

tree in the Catholic cemetery at T are three 

green mounds. In the center of a wreath of half- 
opened lilies on the location stone at the head of 
the one in the center is the name u Grace,*’ the 
word “ Mother ” is on the one at the left, and 
“ Father” on the one at the right, while on the 
tall monument in the corner of the lot is engraved 
the name of each, with their ages and the date of 
their death, Grace’s age being nineteen years. 


332 


AER CASTLES. 


Grace had always appeared to be in the very 
best of health until she was eighteen, when she 
began to look thinner and paler than usual, and 
had a slight cough, but this she attributed to 
hard study, as it was to be her last year in school, 
.and she did extra work to keep ahead of her class. 
Little attention was given to it at first, for she 
would always try to choke back her cough until 
.sometimes her eyes would fill with tears, and when 
asked if she were ill, she would always say that she 
felt quite well. So loath was she to give up to 
her sickness that she would hardly admit, even to 
herself, that she was not well. u What is the 
need of complaining, ” she would say to herself, 
<£ for a little rest is all I need and I will be al- 
right after I leave here.” When her father came 
to see her, as he did every Sunday, she would al- 
ways try to keep him from noticing what she 
feared her pale face might betray by telling him 
of the enjoyments of her school life or of her pro- 
gress in her studies, with which she said the Sis- 
ters were so well pleased. At other times she 
would talk of the beautiful home she soon hoped 
to enjoy with him, and which she would try to 
make so pleasant for him, until he would some- 
times wonder what had come over his little girl, 
as he still called her, although she was now a tall, 


AIR CASTLES. 


333 


handsome young lady, and a perfect image of his 
dead wife. Nevertheless, he greatly enjoyed 
hearing her talk in that way. 

“ How much more like her mother she grows 
every day,” he would sometimes say after he had 
been with her, “ always cheerful and happy, just 
as she was, even after she knew that she must 
leave us.” His affection for his daughter and 
his confidence in all she said were so great that 
she succeeded in deceiving him until about the 
middle of January. His only thought had been 
that Grace was to graduate in the spring, and 
what happiness he would find in bringing her to 
the home which was already being prepared for 
her to enter it as mistress the day after she gradu- 
ated. It was the Sister Superior who. like a 
mother, had watched the young girl, silently pray- 
ing that her worst fears might not be realized, and, 
asking her very often if she felt well, to re- 
ceive the same answer each time, “Very well, 
Sister.” She almost felt at times that Grace 
was deceiving her, and wished to speak of 
her health to her father, but knowing his 
affection for her, dreaded to cause him un- 
necessary grief. When she did mention it to him 
she did not dream that Grace was as weak as she 
was. A physician was consulted at once, who 


334 


AIR CASTLES. 


said that she had consumption, and there was 
no hopes for her recovery, although she might live 
for many months, and possibly for years. It 
grieved her very much to have to give up school, 
even for a few weeks, when she was so near 
through, and when she did leave, it was with the 
understanding that after a little rest she was to 
come back and graduate in the spring. So intent 
was she upon this, that she had her father buy her 
graduating dress and had it made before she left 
the city. It was of pure white cashmere, trimmed 
with cream silk lace, and when she tried it on, to 
show it to her father, he said that he had never 
seen her look any more beautiful, but, alas, there 
was a sad misgiving in his mind that she would 
never wear it for the purpose for which it had 
been made. 

Her father took her to Florida, hoping that the 
genial climate of that land of flowers might im- 
prove her health, and without his knowledge she 
had hid her school books in her trunk, to study 
while she was there, in order to keep up with her 
class, but she made little use of those books. The 
climate did not help her, and in less than two 
months she became so weak that she had to be 
brought home, and when the crocuses and hy- 
acinths were just beginning to bloom she took to 


AIR CASTLES. 


335 


her bed, and it was feared that in a few days she 
would be sleeping beneath them, but after much 
suffering, which she bore with angelic patience, 
she rallied and lived until the summer was over. 
Although quite weak, she was able to attend the 
commencement exercises at St. Agnes’ Academy, 
and expressed her deepest regrets that she could 
not be one of the class, but still she had one great 
happiness, she was now living with her father in 
the dear home which she had longed for so long. 

It was on the morning of the second of Septem- 
ber that, after being confined to her own room for 
only a few days, she passed peacefully away, sur- 
rounded by her father, her pastor, and two of her 
old schoolmates, who had spent the night with 
her. The last words she spoke were words of en- 
couragement to her father, and his was the last 
face she saw. In compliance with her own re- 
quest, she wore her graduating dress for the first 
time when she was laid in her coffin, and her class, 
which numbered six that year, attended the funeral 
as honorary bearers. Her death was a great blow 
to her loving parent, who, after he had laid her 
beside her mother, visited their graves very often, 
remaining there for hours at a time, until little 
over a year after her. death he was taken there for 
the last time and laid to rest beside the ones who 


336 


AIK CASTLES. 


had been so dear to him. 

Grace has her wish now, but how differently 
from what she had expected. She is with her 
father now and her mother, too, and she will al- 
ways be just nineteen. 

Leaving the graves under the hawthorn, we will 
next pay a visit to our friend, Agnes. She is no 
longer the weak, crippled child, we left her, but, 
although not very tall, a graceful young lady, 
whom no one could believe had ever made use of 
either crutch or cane. She finished at the acad- 
emy as she had intended, graduating when she was 
but seventeen ; then went to a normal and training 
school where three years later she again gradu- 
ated with high honors. For two years she taught 
in one of the public schools in the city, then ac- 
cepted a position as preceptress and teacher of 
French and Latin in a fashionable boarding school 
in an eastern city. This was the heigth of her am- 
bition and so eager was she for her work to begin, 
that she almost counted the days until vacation 
would be over. Even here, the young girl who 
seemed doomed to have all her brightest hopes 
crushed by disappointments, was to meet another. 

School was to open the second week in Septem- 
ber, and Agnes was preparing for her departure, 
when her step-mother died quite suddenly, leaving 


AIR CASTLES. 


337 


five small children, the oldest a girl seven years old 
and the youngest a boy but a few weeks old. It 
was hard for Agnes to think of giving up the po- 
sition she had obtained by such hard and faithful 
study, and her father knowing how much she 
prized it, would not even allude to such a thing, but 
told her that he intended breaking up house-keep- 
ing, placing his two oldest girls in St. Agnes* 
Academy, and the others in a Sisters’ foundling 
asylum. Agnes could not think of consenting to 
this, for, as she told herself, they were her 
father's children and it was her duty to care for 
them, now that they had no mother, remembering at 
the time how she herself had been left motherless* 
at a tender age. It was with an aching heart and 
without her father’s knowledge that she wrote to- 
the principal of the school saying that she had de- 
cided to give up her position, as her services were 
needed at home. 

This done, she entered cheerfully upon the work 
which was so different from what she had antici- 
pated but a few weeks before — keeping house for 
her father and caring for his children as tenderly 
as their own mother could have done. Even now 
she could not give up her ambition to teach, so 
she opened a kindergarten in her own home, 
which was attended by a large class of the chil- 


338 


AIR CASTLES. 


dren of wealthy parents. 

Sickness rendered baby Arthur very cross and 
fretful from the first, so that he demanded constant 
care until winter, when he died. His sufferings 
had caused his half-sister to be very much at- 
tached to him, so that she felt his loss deeply. In 
the summer the children had the scarlet fever, and 
had it not been for Agnes’ most tender care, two 
of them would have died, but nothing, however, 
could save Alice, the second oldest, a very 
•sickly child. She did her double work most 
faithfully, with no help excepting from a young 
girl who looked after the younger children while 
she was teaching. To-night we find our young 
friend in her father’s home surrounded by a group 
of four little girls who think there is no one like 
dear sister Agnes, while Agnes, on the other hand, 
when she thinks of her old ambition to teach, 
often tells her friends that she would not give up 
one of her dear little sisters or her class of little 
ones for the highest position in any school in the 
country. 

We will now return to the recreation r«om at 
St. Agnes, which we left twelve years ago to- 
night. The boarders are amusing themselves 
much as they were that evening, but there are 
more of them now, for the academy has been en- 


AIR CASTRES. 


339 


larged since then. The room and many of the 
objects look familiar to us, but the faces are all 
strange excepting one. As we gaze around the 
room, our eyes rest upon the young nun who sits 
behind the table reading a letter, and we know 
now that Laura’s prophecy has come true — for 
there we see her just where she said she would be. 
Laura has at last reached that state of life for 
which she had prayed from her infancy and I 
doubt if in the whole city there are any happier 
than she. 

She graduated when she was eighteen and at 
the earnest request of her guardian went to his 
home to spend a few months. To please him (al- 
though it cost her a great effort, against her own 
will) she entered society the following winter with 
his daughter, who was about her own age. The 
pleasures in which she was obliged to indulge for 
several weeks were even greater than what the 
light-hearted Bessie Arnold had prophesied were 
in store for herself. Laura won many friends by 
her sweet, simple manners, which are a marked 
characteristic of those brought up in the convent, 
and her company was much sought after, but she 
longed to leave them all and return to the quiet 
home which had been the only one she could re- 
member. In the spring she accompanied her 


340 


AIR CASTLES. 


friends to Europe and remained in their company 
for a year, spending the following winter in Paris, 
where much of her time was passed in social en- 
joyments. 

Wearied of this gay life in which she never 
found any pleasure, she sought admission to a 
convent in France, where she continued her 
studies until she was twenty- one. She then re- 
turned home and entered upon her novitiate at 
the mother-house of the Order which had charge of 
St. Agnes’ Academy. She remained there until 
last summer, when she was sent as a teacher to the 
academy where both her mother and herself had 
received their education. The mistress of board- 
ers being engaged elsewhere this evening, she had 
taken her place and it almost seemed, as she gazed 
at the happy faces before her, that she saw not the 
present boarders but those she had known in by- 
gone days. 

But what is it that brings those dear old faces 
so vividly before her mind to-night ? It is the 
letter she has been reading and which is written 
in a hand which she knows well, although it has 
been a long time since she had seen that hand- 
writing before. The letter by turn had brought 
both tears and smiles to her face. It was from 
her old friend, Bessie Arnold — not Bessie Arnold 


AIR CASTLES. 


341 


now but Mrs Ellsworth. 

Bessie had remained at the academy about a 
year and a half after we last saw her,, and was 
then called home on account of the illness of her 
mother who died a few days after her arrival. 
She did not return to school but the following 
spring accompanied her father on a visit to Cali- 
fornia. While in San Francisco they stopped 
with an old acquaintance named Ellsworth who 
had a son just graduated from an eastern college. 
The young man would have married Bessie then, 
but as she was only seventeen her father thought 
she was too young. She returned home with her 
father and kept house for him until the summer 
after her twentieth birthday, when young Mr. 
Ellsworth came to her home to claim her as his 
bride, and took herself and her father to an ele- 
gant new home he had prepared for them in Los 
Angeles, Cal. There she lived as a queen, mis- 
tress of the domain of which she was so well 
worthy, almost worshipped by one of the most 
devoted of husbands, and there we find her as 
happy after six years and a half of married life 
as when she first entered her home a bride. 

At the time of her marriage she had lost all 
track of Laura, who was then in Europe, and had 
not heard from her until a few days ago, when a 


342 


AIR CASTLES, 


friend from T who was visiting her told her 

of the young nun who had already won so many 
friends among the students and visitors at St. 
Agnes’ Academy. 

Bessie wrote to her immediately, telling her all 
that had taken place since she last heard from 
her, describing her home and sending her the 
photos of her little five-year-old girl and three- 
year-old boy, who were perfect images of their 
mother. She spoke of their happy school days 
and, “Dear sister,” she wrote, “I was quite 
amused, while looking through some of my old 
school books a few days ago, to find a little memo- 
randa written full, with the leaves pinned together. 
Curious to know what it was, I read it and found 
that it contained the prophecies of four school- 
girls, whom you perhaps were acquainted with, 
and bore the date of January 20, 1877. My mind 
wandered back to the dear old recreation room, 
and I could almost see again that happy group 
about whom I have so often thought, and espec- 
ially dear Grace, after whom I have named my 
little girl. When I think of her I almost think 
that she was too sweet and good for the trials of 
this life and as I read in my memoranda her part 
of that prophecy, there was something so sad about 
it that it strikes me now she knew her life would 


AIR CASTLES. 


343 


be short. Think how she said that night it did 
not seem as though she would ever be twenty-six. 
I could not wish our dear friend back for I trust 
she is happier than we, but I hope God will spare 
my dear Grace longer than He did her. 

‘ ‘I almost forgot to tell you, dear Sister,” she 
wrote in conclusion, “that my husband is a Cath- 
olic and with him, I am now a happy member of 
your own church which I thought so strange while 
in school. I know how to appreciate your faith 
now and I am very happy to know that you, my 
dear friend, have chosen to spend your whole life 
in the convent where we once saw so many happy 
days together.” 

Bessie brought her long letter to a close as she 
had begun it, in that light, cheerful style, which 
showed plainly that, although a wife and mother, 
she was as free from care as when we last saw her 
a happy school girl of fifteen. 

The names of the girls who spent one of their 
evenings building air castles may still be read on 
the back of the canyas scenes, where they were 
written by them, for this little story contains 
much truth as well as fiction. 

THE END 

OF AIR CASTLES, OR THE 
THE SCHOOL-GIRLS’ PROPHECIES. 

























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